“A few more hours, okay? Then we’re gone.”

Brandishing a tiki torch, Lacrishia is already mid-instruction when we reach the huddle: “The light will basically be gone by six. Judging what I can from this sky, that’s in less than an hour. This means Miss Manners has already reached the mainland and is about to come back on the boat. Now…we’re gonna stick tightly together on our way to the bunker—stick to each other like an amoeba. If I’m right, we won’t run into anybody on the way. If we do, if there’s any trouble, you’ll hear me, Molly, Marcos, or Connor yell, ‘Run.’ You hear one of us yell ‘run,’ the amoeba splits apart,”—she snaps her fingers—“and you run into the jungle and regroup at the bay. I’m gonna be clear: if we yell ‘run,’ nobody goes into the jungle alone. Use the buddy system. Owen with me, Molly with Jack, Alan with Vance, Christina with Anke, and Connor with Marcos. I’ll lead with the torch. Marcos, you take the rear—” At the mention of rear, Vance snorts and shares a catlike glance with Alan. Marcos’s hand grows ten degrees hotter in my grip. “That’s enough, boys. Marcos, you’re in the back to make sure we don’t lose anyone and to check if we’re being followed.”

“Question,” Molly says, raising her spear. “Why don’t you think we’ll run into anyone?”

“Because they know we’re coming,” I say. “By now, the Reverend knows we know how Drew died. And after my scene with the birth certificate, he knows I won’t leave unless our whole group is intact, so he’s gonna let us come to him.”

The sidelong glances darken across the huddle. I’m pretty sure everyone is regretting siding with me over Team Abandon Darcy. Lacrishia nods: “He’s right. Any of you get scared and think about ditching the group, like maybe things would be better if the camp could just go back to how it was…there’s no going back. Camp’s out.”

Without another sound, ten queer, shivering bodies hoist ten backpacks and begin the expedition north along the lakefront, toward the bunker, Darcy, and the Reverend…

Our journey passes in unnerving silence for minutes before the enormous staff cabin appears. Three times the size of our own lodge, the stilted cabin lords imperiously over Lake Monteverde. Not a single lamp is lit inside, even as the sun dies behind the overcast sky. Technically, it isn’t sunset yet, but the isolation of the lake has grown so dark, my eyes cling to Lacrishia’s flame at the head of our caravan. The island is more sound than sight at this point: cooing night birds, chittering insects, and the roar of the falls behind us—growing fainter with each uneven step along the beach.