“Yeah, that sounds exactly like what he meant.” Nobody leaves camp after a week. As I lock eyes with Marcos, with those permanently wounded eyes, the knot of pain tying together my neck and shoulders begins to loosen. He was just trying to help. I’ve been an asshole. “I’m sorry…I don’t know what’s going on, and nobody will give me a clear answer. Are you okay?”

Marcos stares in disbelief, as if this is the first time someone has ever asked about him. “I’m…cool. We just need—”

He is cut off by the sound of keys jamming into a lock. Not the front door, but down the hall. It can’t be Molly—she doesn’t have keys. Someone else is here.

Nearing his eleventh heart attack of the day, Marcos squishes his eyes shut and accepts my hand again as I yank him, swan diving both of us back into the stifling hell of the closet. Our door shuts at the precise moment the mystery room down the hall unlocks. Braving seasickness once again, I hold on to Marcos’s hand for safekeeping (safe from snapping), and he’s too frightened to resist.

It isn’t Molly.

Two men run into the lobby, giggling. One of them, wearing nothing but his camper shorts, spins around the older man and peels the black tank top from his torso. They kiss hungrily as Briggs’s large, rough hands travel over Drew’s bare thighs.

“I thought they’d never leave,” Drew purrs.

Grinning, Briggs quietly appraises the room before snarling, “All right, baby, get on the counter.” Drew obliges his man, his long, hairless fawn legs spread apart on the countertop next to jars of cotton balls and tongue depressors. Marcos and I can only stare—beyond helpless, beyond screwed—as the oxygen flees our bodies and Briggs gets to work on his boy.

I turn my head the moment Calvin Klein’s shorts hit the floor, with nothing between him and the countertop but blond ass hairs. Marcos and I face each other—overheated, terrified, and in full, psychic agreement that this is a private show not for our eyes. I only wish I weren’t still clutching his hand as the muffled oohs and unhhhs float through the wafer-thin closet door. It feels like we’re part of a very bizarre foursome.

We have two choices: stay put or barge out of the closet and get destroyed by Briggs. So, for the next four minutes (give or take seventy hours), Marcos and I quietly deep breathe ourselves out of lightheadedness. Drew and Briggs keep making a fair amount of noise, so whenever a loud moan comes, I seize the opportunity to gulp a fuller breath. Eventually, I release Marcos’s hand, and he fans himself in a futile attempt to coax a breeze onto his parched skin.

Finally, stillness arrives. Neither man speaks. Only indistinct shuffling.