No one speaks as the amoeba of campers creeps around the edge of the staff cabin. Two Jeep Wranglers sit parked out front, splattered in mud the color of creamed coffee. Although both of them are empty, finding the Wranglers startles me; they appeared too suddenly in the dark, harmless but nevertheless unwelcome, like finding a spider in your bathtub.

“No one’s inside them,” I whisper, tightening my grip on the spear. “No one’s there…”

The staff cabin behind us, Alan’s feather-light, southern voice calls as he and Vance scoot closer: “Connor! We wanted to ask…” The boys’ eyes ping-pong between each other, nervous but tantalized.

“What?” I ask.

“You two…did it?”

Through the curtain of terror suffocating my brain, these boys have somehow managed to irritate me. They’ve been giggly and obsessed with Marcos and me all day, and now that we’re running for our lives, this is what they’re concerned about? Oh, please, I scold myself. You’re just as boy crazy as they are. Marcos would hate hearing me admit to this, but he’s five campers back, so I don’t see the harm. “We sure did,” I say, eliciting dramatic, silent movie-style gasps from the tweens.

“So cool,” Alan says.

“What was it like doing it with him?” Vance asks, all business.

My eyebrows scrunch again, and I reply, “Um…I’ll leave the sex talk to your mom.”

“Yeah, she’s gonna get right on that.” Vance rolls his eyes. “I didn’t ask what sex is like, I asked what having sex with Marcos is like.”

I whip sideways so violently, I nearly stop the whole caravan in its tracks. These thirsty little demons. “You mean…how does he kiss? Does he smell sweet or dirty? What’s his butt like? How’s his dick? Those sorta details?” Speechless, the boys bob their heads in urgent, Morse code messages of Yes, please! Those details! Hand them over! I grin and whisper, “None of your damn business, jellybeans.”

Satisfied, I double my pace, weaving ahead of Molly and Jack while Alan bickers with his friend: “You had to be sassy. We were gonna get the whole story out of him!”

An eternity later, Lacrishia stops our march outside the girls’ cabin, which is identical to ours, except their outdoor shower block is to the left and ours is to the right. Anxious, confused whispering rises as Lacrishia separates from the amoeba and mounts the small, patchy hill toward the showers. Torch-first, she enters the enclosure and reemerges a few seconds after.

“Jack,” she summons, and Jack approaches like a dutiful soldier. “I need a squirrel.”

“You want it all?” he asks, understanding.

“We’re not coming back. Get the whole enchilada.” Without further instructions, Jack shuffles toward the shower block like the rabbit that bears his name. “Jack, you need my torch?”

“I could do this in my sleep.”