“Lead the way, Weezer,” I say, not remotely ready to continue hiking on the blisters that used to be my feet. “Hey, did you…call out the name Ario?”

“Oh, weird, right? Molly didn’t want me running into the jungle yelling ‘Connor!’ and lead them right to you, so she said to yell ‘Ario’ instead. She said you’d know what it meant and come running.”

Molly. Shady lady. “She thought of everything.”

“So…what’s Ario?”

Unprepared to be walloped by such an obvious follow-up question, I tug Ario’s recorder through my shirt for good luck. “Nobody.” Hearing myself say the lie throws another thousand miles between me and my boyfriend. Ario and I are running out of time—now, no longer just because he’s leaving for college, but because I’m a different person than I was forty-eight hours ago. And when I get home—if I get home—I’ll be even differenter.

I’m no clock, but this was not a fifteen-minute hike. Each step sliced into my pounding, throbbing feet, relieved only when the jungle’s encroaching darkness broke away into gray daylight. The rain began halfway through our trip, and when we finally exit the forest canopy, I drink in as much as possible.

For the rest of my life, I’ll never be hydrated enough.

The storming sky has become an unassailable wall of granite, marked only by foggy halos encircling the island peaks that rise in the distance beyond Lake Monteverde. Marcos was an excellent guide—he led us directly to the edge of the waterfall dropping half a stadium off the clifftop. The waterfall pummels the lake, spraying outward in a fine mist that’s just as agreeable as this rain on my sun-battered face. Scanning left, the high grass smothering the lakeshore continues for miles without a single Nightlight cabin, gray-shirt, or camper in sight. Marcos was right: the sudden absence of human life in this camp is maximum creepy.

“We’re the first ones here,” I say. “Maybe we shouldn’t wait out in the open.”

“There’s a cavern behind the falls,” Marcos says, striking an unexpectedly rugged pose as he points confidently toward our destination. Clutching his wrist for support, I follow as we mount the long, slanted rocks leading to the falls’ base. It’s a risky voyage. Rain, mist, and lapping lake water have turned the rocks slippery; Marcos’s wide-legged stance keeps him dependably upright, but my teeny chicken legs won’t stop wobbling until we come face-to-face with the waterfall.

I follow Marcos through the roaring curtain of water, and inside, a cavern welcomes us. The falls provide a soundproof cloak against the world outside, allowing only scant flecks of daylight into the grotto. Marcos flicks open his lighter, and a small flame illuminates a ledge in front of us: a shimmering, black-green rock shelf rises to my chest, and from it, a slope continues upward into darkness.