When mom said she lost her camel in the desert I thought she meant she lost a real camel–the kind of camel with one or two humps, or the kind she gets when she wears her pink Juicy Couture sweat pants to Publix. I looked everywhere for her camel. Left. Right. I even looked in the boys and girls bathroom. Lifted a sewer cover and said hello, camel, hello. Mom drank a Cream Ale while I searched like a freak for her imaginary camel. Finally, mom got a bright idea. She started the VW and backed it up. She got out of the car and slammed the door shut. She bent over and found her camel where the car was parked–semi crushed and open lying face up next to a heavily used tissue. The box was empty except for a few specks of tobacco. Someone must have smoked every last cigarette then blew his or her nose. Look, mom said, a finger. It wasn’t a finger. It was a butt. (See right of “L” in “CAMEL”.) It’s a butt, I said. My ass, she said. You are, I said. Under my breath of course. We got in the car and left.