Ah yes—there it was, the first mention of Lovesick Falls’ mythic spring, which burbled up in the woods and could purportedly make anyone who drank from it fall out of love. I’d read all I could about it while researching for our presentation—one article called it “California’s answer to the Blarney Stone” and included a picture of a small, moody-looking waterfall tucked away in the woods, a line of people waiting to drink from it. Ironically, the story of the spring made me fall even more in love with the place: Lovesick Falls wasn’t just a normal town we were running away to, but it was something out of a fairy tale, or Arthurian legend, a place with mythical features ripe for the discovering. And secretly, I began to hope that spending the summer here wouldn’t just cure Ros of their blues; maybe, I thought in my most desperate, painful moments, I could drink from the spring and it would cure me of my feelings for them.

Somehow, we’d emerged back in the costume shop, where Phoebe gave me a brief rundown of its particular spaces and introduced me to the other shop employees. A handful of names went in one ear and out the other—a jumbled mix of Saras and Kiras and Alexes I worried I’d never be able to retain. The shop should’ve been easier for my brain to manage than the whole theater, but there was still so much, even contained in one room: drawers full of buttons and bobbins and pins, ribbons, strings, muslin cloth, sketches.

“I’m a little overwhelmed,” I said to Phoebe.

“Of course you are,” she said. “It’s overwhelming. Don’t worry; I’ll teach you how to do everything, and we’ll start small. Like today, I’m going to have you repair scuffs on black shoes. There’s no way you can mess it up. It’s basically coloring.”

I smiled, relieved. Coloring was in my wheelhouse.

“We’re happy to have you, Celia,” she said, handing me a pair of black shoes and a marker. “Any questions, just ask.”

At lunch, I started to worry again about Ros. I’d texted them but gotten no response. I knew that Touchstone was right, that they were probably fine, but I couldn’t get that image of them in the river out of my mind: the water closing up over their head, the whole of them disappearing in a gentle gulp.

Phoebe had told me reception was spotty all over campus—most everyone there communicated via walkie-talkie, which would have been very exciting to eight-year-old Celia—but she told me if I followed any of the “scenic trails available to visitors” deeper into the forest, there was a big tree where you could reliably find some bars. She wished me luck, and I set off across campus.