“Purple mountains majesties,” Phil sang, and the words spun and garbled in his mouth, and for some reason he felt compelled to twirl, even though he hadn’t done anything like that since he was a kid at the mercy of his older sister. “I wonder how Dawn is.”
“You alright?” George asked over his shoulder, and Phil nodded and the simple motion made him rock like a dinghy in the middle of a hurricane. George didn’t notice. George continued hiking the startlingly steep elevation, and what exactly was the altitude here, because he hadn’t sung America the Beautiful since Dawn lived at home either. He really should call her.
The sun beat down on his head and his thoughts flowed as freely as his sweat. In the winter this mountain must get avalanches. Phil hummed at the mere thought of cool snow. In the summer though, this mountain just overheated Phil, the cherry on top of his probable altitude sickness. His stomach churned, the pizza was a bad decision.
“The next peak is the worst of it,” George informed. Phil’s pizza did a somersault.
“Yeah,” Phil said without thought, like his body was finally doing the thinking for him. “The worst part happened, for me, about a quarter mile back. I’m just going to sit here for a purple mountain majesty or two, then meet you by the car.”
George turned back, shaking his head as he sat next to Phil. “Yeah, no. If you’re seeing purple mountains, we’re definitely walking back to the car together.”
“Whatever you say, Star Spangled Man with a Plan.”