“Just be careful. We don’t like secrets here…” One unbearable second later, Ramona lowers her taser and I unclench my spine. You can’t spot all the liars, asshole. “Once I’m finished with Molly, Mr. Briggs will take both of you to meet the director.” Without so much as a nod, I gather my sopping hoodie from a nearby chair and escape to the door. Ramona’s hand—as leathery as an old belt—stops me. “While you’re here, you’re gonna start to think the world’s forgotten about you. You come see me if that feeling ever gets real bad.”

I wish everyone would forget about me. I’d enjoy the privacy.

In the next room, I comb beach sand out of my hair and rinse my scratched feet in a galvanized basin of filthy standing water. Ramona declares my clothes “riddled with travel” and junks them into a burlap laundry sack. Maybe she should change into something new, as well, and drop that horrible dress into the sack. Our delightful nurse summons Molly into her office, leaving me alone with Briggs while I dress in my new uniform, fresh out of summer camp: short athletic socks, white gym shoes, a powder-blue T-shirt with Nightlight’s insignia (the middle “T” replaced with a crucifix—love it), and elastic-banded shorts (too short for my liking—hope everyone here can handle thighs!). I change as some frightening, roided-out man stands watch—it’s my middle school sex nightmares all over again.

Exiting outside after acclimating to the clinic’s fluorescent lights darkens the day. Briggs marches Molly and me back into the downpour of the Coral Road, and the privilege of being clean and dry comes to an abrupt end. Scurrying after us, Ramona switches off her generator and covers it with a blue tarp. Before returning inside, she smacks a tall tank hanging along the clinic wall: three cone-shaped gutters collect rainwater and guide it into the tank’s reservoir.

That beauty queen nurse is a freaking sadist. Every memento of Ario is gone forever, except for his recorder. A piece of him in case I get lonely. Well, Ario, I’m sure as shit lonely now.

Molly changed out of her ruined party dress and into camper gear like mine. Both of us are faint with the exhaustion of our endless journey, and she wobbles against my arm to stop herself from falling. If I could just vomit, I’d be more comfortable. “Cheer up, you two,” Briggs says. “You’ll meet the director, get some food if you like, and then you can get to bed early.”

Molly and I both groan, disgusted at the mention of food. She must be feeling the same inescapable nausea I am—a nasty byproduct of stress, erratic sleep, and having to banish all memories of our boyfriend and girlfriend. No food, thanks.

We don’t talk back. We don’t plot escape. We nod and keep trudging.

Around the next bend, flames dance between the raindrops. Kerosene torches surround a chapel three stories high, built from barn lumber. Like every other building on this island, the church stands on tiptoes above the flooding road.