Can somebody review my essay

The car stops. The driver and passenger doors swing open. I look around as they approach my door. I see desert—lots of it—with cacti. Low-lying vines battle the endless yellow desert, not the tall saguaros you see on postcards. A group of boys, all wearing red T-shirts, khaki pants, tan cowboy hats, and black boots, catch my eye. My door flies open. “Get your bag,” the man says in a harsh tone. I step out. All eyes are on me. Boys whisper, glance over. I turn and grab my black and red hiking bag. I stumble backward. Expecting it to be heavier, my stomach drops. How long will I be here? I hear a laugh. “Come on, let’s set up your tent.”

Thwack! The spindle slams off my hand. I throw my bow. I’ll never get this. I’ll never get a fire. I stand. The world tilts. My knees wobble after fifty-two days in the desert. I grab it and sit back down. Sweat begins to bead on my forehead. But I drill again, pressing with all my weight. My palms blister on the gray stone. The spindle bites the fireboard, and a rasping, grating sound rises. The bowstring squeaks. My muscles strain as I go back and forth, faster and faster. A wisp of smoke curls up, drifting into my nostrils. It smells like charcoal. I push harder. Then a tiny ember appears. I scramble for a nest and pour it in. The ruby glows. I blow, sparks burning my face. Twigs catch, and the ember swells. A small flame pops out. I made my first fire.

“Charlie!” A bullet knocks me over. I get up, grab my little brother. My family. All of them here—or nowhere. I feel joy—something I haven't felt in a long time—as we drive to a campsite away from the others. My little brother buzzes, a mosquito: “You have a beard. Did you know that?” I don't care. I've never been happier. The car stops. Everyone gets out. A million questions, a million answers. Mom wants to know how to set up. Dad, what we eat? Sister, how I'm doing? Brother just wants to talk. But we need a fire.

Our version of family therapy begins. They aren't very good, but I'm proud they’re trying. I've spent the last 74 days learning to communicate and explore my struggles. We share resentments and regrets by the fire. Reading everyone's list, my brother goes first. Then Mom, Sister, Dad. Finally, me. I sit next to my brother and look him in the eye. He’s only ten. “James,” I say, “I resent your ability to see the good in everyone, no matter what they've done.” That's all I could resent. Then come the regrets. “I regret...” I cry, “…being away from home so long and unable to see you, I love and miss you.” The flame grows. “I regret that I wasn't a good role model for you. I want you to look up to me, so when you struggle, I can teach you to overcome it and learn from what I have done.” The words get harder. “I regret being short-tempered when all you wanted was my approval.” We all cry. It is healing.

In the desert, miles away from anyone, I learned how to make fire from nothing. I learned about myself and how to rebuild warmth between people. I know that flame and forgiveness never come easy; you must endure the heat, the blisters, the silence. Growth only happens when you stop hiding. Embrace discomfort, and you find your way home. Now, when challenges arise, I remind myself to stay close to the heat instead of retreating from it. The warmth we make—whether from flame or family—only lasts if we’re willing to stand close to the fire. This lesson still guides me whenever I face a challenge I don’t yet know how to begin.