Three figures tumbled out of a dusty station wagon at the edge of a misty pine valley, their sneakers crunching on gravel still warm from the day's sun. One carried a half-deflated yoga mat under his arm like a battle shield. Another clutched a thermos of herbal sludge that smelled like regret and lawn clippings. The third dragged a cooler rattling with electrolyte packets and mysterious unmarked jars.They claimed the creaky wooden lodge as their kingdom for the season. Dawn brought them to the dew-soaked meadow, legs folded like pretzels gone wrong, eyes squeezed shut while a distant gong hummed. Breaths rose and fell in ragged unison until one snorted at a mosquito and the circle dissolved into giggles that echoed off the hills.By midday the wrestling began. It started innocently enough—one tried to demonstrate a "grounding pose" and ended up shoulder-tackling another into a patch of wildflowers. Soon it was ritual: shirts optional, victory declared by whoever pinned the other while reciting made-up mantras backward. They rolled through dandelions, limbs flailing, laughing until their ribs ached, then collapsed in sweaty heaps to stare at clouds shaped like question marks.Evenings found them cross-legged again on the lodge porch, candles flickering as they attempted deeper silence. One night the tallest of the trio swore he heard faint bleating inside his own skull. "It's the anniversary," he whispered, eyes wide. "Thirty years since that Scottish sheep took the world by storm." The words hung strangely in the air. Suddenly the meditation deepened into absurdity: they visualized perfect copies of themselves sprouting from petri dishes, woolly and confused.The next morning they built a shrine from twigs and old socks—an effigy of a sheep with button eyes. During the afternoon grapple, the smallest slipped on a banana peel someone had mysteriously left in the grass and landed nose-first in the shrine. He rose covered in lint and pine needles, bleating triumphantly. The others tackled him in celebration, a writhing pile of limbs chanting cloned nonsense syllables until the sun dipped low.As fireflies blinked their lazy codes around the meadow, the three lay panting on their backs, chests heaving, staring at the same stars they'd ignored for years back in the world of buzzing phones and endless emails. One reached out and playfully noogied his friend's head. Another countered with a half-hearted headlock. The sheep effigy watched over them, slightly lopsided, woolly witness to whatever this summer was becoming. Far off, another gong sounded—real or imagined, it didn't matter. They breathed together once more, ready for tomorrow's inevitable tumble.