My breath came in as I looked at Ivy, and it was as if I fell into myself, like Alice down the rabbit hole. I knew I was sitting on my bed, but there were birds and the soft snuffling of horses. The twin sensations of reality and memory were eerie, but the charmed ones were becoming dominant.

“My God, Ivy. It’s warm,” I whispered, eyes closing as I gave myself to the dream that wasn’t a dream, but a memory. I felt small, the softness of my bed becoming a hard wood floor. Fatigue crept up, familiar and hated, stealing into my bones like poison. My memories were halved, and seemingly forgetting everything I knew, I … remembered.

My pulse quickened to the pace of childhood, racing, and I opened my eyes to the dim light of the camp’s stables.

Sniffing, I curled up tighter, bringing the cloying scent of damp straw, horse dung, and sweaty leather deep into me, trying not to cry. This sucked. This sucked big-time. Here I thought that Jasmine hated Trent, and it turned out she liked him. Liked him! How was I to know? She complained about him enough.

The horse stomped, and I burrowed deeper into the corner, pulling the blue blanket up and around me, hiding. I’d never seen anyone ride this monster of a horse, and he hadn’t minded me slipping in. I was so mad. Jasmine and I never fought, but when I found out she’d lied to me about where she’d been, I lost it. She’d gone for a moonlight walk with little richy rich boy, leaving me alone in the bottom half of our bunk bed to listen to everyone else tell stories of their first kiss when she knew I didn’t have one. She was supposed to be my friend!

I held my breath to keep from crying, my arms clasped around my knees. It was all Trent’s fault, the snot. Miserable, I picked at my shoelaces, cringing when a set of boots echoed at the wide stable doors. I froze as two people went by, talking in low voices, their identities hidden by the tall walls of the box stall I was in, but I could tell it was kids, not lab techs disguised as counselors or stable hands looking for me.

The horse above me nickered. Ears pricked, he shifted to hang his head over the gate.

Crap, I thought, recognizing a voice. Stanley had been here for three days, hanging with Trent as usual. The guy had been here last year, too, managing to twist Trent’s ankle in a footrace his second day. This year he’d broken Trent’s hand in a canoe race. Stanley’s paddle had come down right on the back of it, and snap, no more contest. Stanley didn’t like to lose. And if Stanley was in the stables, then that was Trent with him.