The Reverend makes no sounds. Harsh coral soil crunches beneath our wheels as the Wrangler climbs in speed, sending us faster and faster through the blurring, tightening walls of jungle green.

I got him. Hell, I got myself.

I was my mom’s best buddy, taking care of everything for her. Cleaning up her messes, getting her to work on time. She needed me. I thought I had her love locked in. She needed me, but I still ended up on the island.

Whew. Turns out, Nightlight really is therapy.

“No straight guy cares that much about what people are up to,” I say, shrugging bitterly. “You can act like the butchest lumberjack; nothing takes that stink away. I guessed about you because we’re doing the same thing—running like hell, like that calf. Never fast enough.”

That pretty much guarantees the Reverend won’t ask me another invasive question for the rest of our drive. When we reach Pura Vida, the Reverend whips the Wrangler in a tight U-turn around Karaoke Bill’s watchtower before settling in the middle of the courtyard. Being back in camp with other people is a small relief. I’m ready to lay some serious distance between me and the Reverend. “Howdy, Bill,” the Reverend calls from his window.

Bill watches us from his bird’s nest, his crinkled eyes smiling like a dog whose owner has finally returned. “The boat came while you were out,” he hollers, waving a piece of paper like a winning lottery ticket. “There’s mail! And…Stanley, I got a letter!”

“You did?”

“I got a letter from my family!” Bill’s rust-colored skin cracks underneath all his smiling. “They said they’re coming tonight. Tonight! I—I can’t believe it!”

“Aw, good for you. Are you happy, Bill?”

“I’m happy!” Those two words—I’m happy—bring Bill to the edge of tears, and a few tears of my own rise to the surface. It sounds nice to be visited after an eternity of isolation. “I never thought it would happen…Hey, you,”—Bill shakes his letter at me—“kid, you gotta know what a special person you have in that car with you. A good man. A great man!”

“I’m happy I could make you happy, Bill,” the Reverend says, beaming. “All you needed was a little faith.” But like every other word that comes out of the Reverend’s mouth, it rings empty—poisonous, as if his tongue has been laced with cyanide.

“I have faith,” Bill mutters, nodding as he returns to his letter.

“See?” the Reverend asks, turning to me with a twinkle like Santa Claus. “It’s not all frowns here at Nightlight.”

“What’s the deal with his family?” I ask. “Is he another old camper?”