He fades into the shadows, and Mr. Bob’s speech drones on. It’s all about Camp Spirit, and Persistence, and Determination, and Courage. I wish he’d skip it. I’ve heard it before, too many times. At the telethons, they act like we show spirit in just being alive; persistence in not curling up and dying; determination in doing ordinary things; courage in showing our faces in public. It’s insulting, really. I used to take it for granted, but no more. How can Mr. Bob still talk this way after the reverse telethon?

Didn’t he get our point?

*   *   *

Singing, we make a slow procession to the lake. From now until morning, there is to be no talking.

We carry short candles in painted ice cream cups and go out into the night. The stars and moon are bright in a clear sky, but what I notice is the darkness; the outdoor lights are off. We make our way around the flagpole, down the hill, to the lake. “Kumbayah,” we sing, “kumbayah.”

The crickets and tree frogs sing loud enough to be heard over our singing, our strange singing that no longer sounds strange here. I speak the words. “Someone’s singing, Lord, kumbayah. Someone’s laughing, Lord, kumbayah. Someone’s crying, Lord, kumbayah.”

When we reach the edge of the lake, the singing stops, and Mr. Bob lights his candle. “We light our candles, passing the flame from hand to hand, as a symbol of all we have shared and all that we’ve learned. We put our candles on the lake as a symbol of our leaving this place. But we will take with us to our homes our own flame of Camp Spirit.” The counselors light their candles from Mr. Bob’s and return to their campers and pass the flame on.

When the flame reaches Sara, the chain stops. “Margie,” she whispers, breaking the silence, “this could be dangerous! Help us out.”

Margie holds Sara’s candle and lights mine from it. For a moment, our two wicks flare to join all three of us in golden light. Carefully, Margie lays my candle on my lap and sets Sara’s in her hands. She lights her own candle from mine and passes it on to Denise. With the descent of silence—our first time coming together in silence—the chirps of crickets echo on the water. Tomorrow night I’ll be in my own bed, listening through the open window to the crickets in my yard. It seems impossible.

Cabin by cabin, we go on the dock to see our candles lay on the water. From the dock, I look back at the shore at the candles resting in hands and on laps, hands and laps made anonymous, made uniform, by the darkness. I look down at the candles floating away, and at their light reflections shimmering on the black water.