I could sense that he was in a new world， that this whole experience was foreign to him. But I somehow knew it wouldn’t be right to push him， either. He didn’t need a pep talk； he needed a friend. After several silent moments， my first interaction with the boy under the tree was over.
At lunch the next day， I found myself leading camp songs at the top of my lungs for 200 of my new friends. The campers eagerly participated. My gaze wandered over the mass of noise and movement and was caught by the image of the boy from under the tree， sitting alone， staring out the window. I nearly forgot the words to the song I was supposed to be leading. At my first opportunity， I tried again， with the same questions as before： “How are you doing？ Are you okay？” To which he again replied， “Yeah， I’m all right. I just don’t really get into this stuff.” As I left the cafeteria， I realized this was going to take more time and effort than I had thought—if it was even possible to get through to him at all.
That evening at our nightly staff meeting， I made my concerns about him known. I explained to my fellow staff members my impression of him and asked them to pay special attention and spend time with him when they could.
The days I spend at camp each year fly by faster than any others I have known. Thus， before I knew it， mid-week had dissolved into the final night of camp， and I was chaperoning the “last dance.” The students were doing all they could to savor every last moment with their new “best friends”—friends they would probably never see again.
As I watched the campers share their parting moments， I suddenly saw what would be one of the most vivid memories of my life. The boy from under the tree， who had stared blankly out the kitchen window， was now a shirtless dancing wonder. He owned the dance floor as he and two girls proceeded to cut a rug. I watched as he shared meaningful， intimate time with people at whom he couldn’t even look just days earlier. I couldn’t believe it was the same person.