Queasily, I join Molly in assisting the campers down the slippery rocks jutting out of the lake. Lacrishia goes first with Owen, who clings to her like a baby kangaroo, his eyes blaring open in constant alert. Vance grips Molly’s hand on his way down to solid earth, breathing in slow, deliberate bursts as if he were in labor. Next, I help down pale, frail Alan, who accepts my hand as daintily as an eighteenth-century courtesan. As he descends the rocks to the lakeshore, Alan flicks bashful glances my way—he hasn’t held another boy’s hand since arriving at camp. Maybe ever. Jack, as tiny as Owen, has none of that boy’s trepidation. He doesn’t wait for any helping hand, instead hopscotching off the stones and landing with Olympian grace. The Beginner girls, Christina and Anke, follow Jack’s lead—gripping each other, they scamper to shore with considerably less success. Christina’s long legs plunge into the lake up to her knees, but she refuses help from anyone but Anke.

Last one out is Marcos. At the foot of the falls, he stares back through the veil of water, like he’s heartsick at having to leave our sanctum behind. It’s something out of a coming-of-age movie, but they’re the only words I have to describe how rattled I feel—how changed: Marcos and I went inside the sanctum as boys but are leaving as men. Marcos gazes through the falls, as if he’s searching for the young boy he left inside who’s wearing his face.

A version of us will always live in that cave. A version of Ricky is also hiding there. A version of Ricky who didn’t know how bad it was about to get for him. I don’t know how bad it’s about to get for me either.

When Marcos finally turns his back on the falls, our drooping faces sync, almost telepathically: back to reality. I hesitate before raising my helping hand to him. Holding my breath, I watch him make the decision whether to reach for me. If he doesn’t, if he descends on his own, he’s only going to drift further away from me. After another moment’s consideration, his hand envelopes mine like warm, rising bread dough, and through some miracle, I don’t burst into grateful tears, sobbing, “I can’t do this without y-y-you-ou-ou-ou!”

As Marcos hops to shore, Molly rushes toward the group huddle forming along the high grass. Before we join the others, I tug Marcos behind and let him off the hook for having to say it first: “I’m gonna miss our cave too.” He squishes my hand and shuts his eyes against an emotional riptide. “You still owe me a date, remember?”

“I’d love to go with you,” he whispers, his voice thickening. “Let’s just get out of here first.”