My hand floats over the empty floor where Ricky pinned Stanley, as if by magic I could summon them from the past and comfort them. I was also attacked in this room—Briggs’s unwashed jungle scent won’t leave my nostrils. The Reverend’s father ignited a chain reaction that has mutated gay boys into violent, unstable hyenas when we should be helping each other. A brutal cycle—’round and ’round and ’round. I don’t know who attacked Ricky—Briggs, the Reverend, his dad—but I’m going to break the cycle.

“I’ll fix it,” I whisper to the empty office.

My brain processes a thousand different shifts in reality at once: the Reverend is Ricky’s cousin; Nightlight turned Ricky into a wild animal; I actually feel bad for the Reverend. My body moves automatically, without thought. I gather the dozen Expulsion Diaries back into a stack on one of the half-moon desks—the one Molly bumped into, which now crooks at an odd angle to the others. I lick moisture back into my lips, resurfacing the metallic tang of Briggs’s taser as my newfound courage sinks down a drain.

It seems I’m all talk—Briggs grabbed my arm and I froze. I was as useless as Stanley trapped underneath his justifiably unhinged cousin.

“Ricky suffered,” Briggs said. So did Stanley.

I’m alone with the porcelain-feathered birds gathering between the iron bars on the windowsill. Alone, except Briggs is still everywhere. He could be anywhere. Nightlight staff members have a habit of popping out of doorways and around corners like performers in a haunted maze. The campers do this too—I don’t realize anyone else is in the room until a soft voice carries through the air: “Connor?”

The birds scatter, and one heart attack later, I lift my heavy neck to Marcos weaving through the desks to reach me. He totes a clear plastic box, and the sunlight streaming through the barred window forms a broken halo behind his head. Humidity has fluffed his slicked-back hair, which now resembles licorice-colored soft serve. He smiles, but something behind his glasses communicates: “I know. I’m sorry.”

I’m so grateful to see him, I cry again. Gobs of tears rush to the brim of my face, but stop as soon as Marcos puts a finger to his lips. “Stop that,” he hushes, “and answer something for me.”

Marcos’s tone seizes command while somehow never losing its gentleness. Holding back a dam of emotion, I concede, “All right.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“Marcos…he put the taser in m-my mouth—”

“He what?” An unusual fire ignites behind Marcos’s eyes, yet he continues standing like a soldier at attention—the way he did when Vance freaked out. The world is a swirling mess, but Marcos remains unshaken. It’s comforting to have this anchor.