“No. I didn’t. But you’re scared, and your brain is clearly pulsing with hundreds of overwhelming theories, and I need you to relax.” The Reverend squats on his bench, and the three-inch chain connecting us tugs me down with him. When my ass finds the seat, the vertigo coursing through my skull finally balances and dissipates.

I’m not falling. I’m sitting. I’m safe.

In these handcuffs, if I fell, he’d tumble with me. The Reverend is making sense, but the truth would relax me a lot more than these handcuffs. Ricky’s Polaroid, smiling and wide-eyed, floats through my memory. “You probably already knew,” I say, “you know everything—I found Ricky on the Winner’s Wall.”

“Surprise,” the Reverend says.

“Does Nightlight take such good care of all their old campers? Or just ones who’ve had accidents?” I don’t say accidents shadily; I’m as innocent as apple pie. Nevertheless, my blow lands. The Reverend anxiously adjusts his glasses.

“My father installed this bench twenty-seven years ago.” He squints as the high sun reemerges with a vengeance from behind its cloud cover. “Dad and I would watch the ocean and discuss our vision for the camp. When he died, he left me in charge. I became the new Reverend Packard.” He snorts as if it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. “Nobody cared what I had to say until I became the Reverend.”

So, it’s a family business. The Packards run a chicken farm in Ambrose and an island cult in Costa Rica. “How much does an island even cost?” I ask, bewildered. The Reverend’s family is rich, but small-town rich, nothing like this.

“We don’t own the land, Connor,” the Reverend says blankly. “Nightlight is part of a management company that leases the island from the government of Costa Rica. Long time ago, management poached Dad for the job. And I became his successor…” He stares, not at the rollicking water, but at some point beyond the sea, as if he’s trying to find our little town out there.

Poached for the job, I think with a shudder. By whom? This mysterious management company that wanted to start a radical brand of conversion therapy on a paradise island? I can’t help picturing some kind of Hydra Organization—a room of shadowy men and women, scanning the globe for the perfect fire-and-brimstone preacher before landing on the Reverend’s father and making their dark decision.

As the Reverend watches the horizon, warm understanding fills my head. If the truth always costs me, then a lie must set me free. If there was ever time to play this card, it’s now, before it’s too late.