“Did you have a nice time?” she asked. Summer launched into the stories without being pushed, ending it with eating breakfast with Sara’s family.

“Her dad is the doctor?” her mother asked.

Summer nodded.

“What was he like?”

“I don’t know. Sara’s mom talked more than he did. They just asked me stuff.”

“Like what stuff?”

Her mother was sitting up straighter now, more alert.

“I don’t remember,” she lied. “I have to go to class now.” She started to stand up, but her mother grabbed her hand.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and she looked it. “I’m just tired.” Seeming to force a smile, her mama squeezed her hand once more before letting go.

“Okay, kid. I’ll see you tonight for dinner.”

Summer raised a hand and ran after Sara, who was waiting near the door for her: the school bell had rung.

8

Then

It was February of 1999; Kids’ Camp was double the size it had been the previous year. Summer turned fourteen quietly that month. Her mother was away, and if anyone knew it was Summer’s birthday, they didn’t say. Most days consisted of a steady stream of chores, schoolwork, journaling and leadership training, and by the time she climbed into her bunk at night, she couldn’t say what day of the week it was. They woke early—four a.m. early—to run two miles before their day started. Fitness and discipline were important, Taured told them. To learn bodily discipline, they would watch what they ate, report on their exercise and calorie intake each day and sleep exactly six hours each night. If they didn’t meet their assigned weight goal each week, they lost an hour of sleep. And if they weren’t sleeping, they had to be working.

In March, Monica Lewinsky was interviewed by Barbara Walters about her affair with the president. Taured wheeled the big TV into the cafeteria so everyone could watch. Plates of cookies were passed around, the chocolate warm in their mouths as Miss Lewinsky explained why she hadn’t dry-cleaned her dress. It felt like they’d barely dusted the cookie crumbs off their laps when the TV appeared again in April, with bowls of rice pudding: this time, Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold had murdered twelve students and one teacher in the Columbine massacre. Summer couldn’t eat the pudding; sprinkled with cinnamon, it looked like freckled skin. She watched as hundreds of students ran for their lives across the grass, arms behind their heads lest they be mistaken for a shooter, and wondered what she’d do in that situation. The building Harris and Klebold had terrorized looked similar to the compound, filled with windowless hallways and limited exits.