As raging as I’ve seen the Reverend get, he’s never hit anyone before. Vicky said her older sister saw him slap a kid’s neck with a ruler, but I never believed it. It was kind of cool to watch the Reverend coldcock Briggs, that thug who tased me in the chest…but I don’t know; the attack was also weird, like something I shouldn’t have seen. Like stumbling in on a family member naked.

As tough as Briggs acts, though, he obeyed the Reverend.

Beside me, Molly pokes my arm and whispers, “You know this guy?”

“He’s a reverend in my hometown,” I whisper. “My mom’s friends with him.”

“Find a seat,” the Reverend booms, scooting us deeper inside the flickering light of the chapel. “Miss Culpepper has a pot of cocoa waiting. Hurry up.” A wretched lurch wrings my stomach like a sponge at the thought of cocoa. Molly and I choose the front pew, mostly to stay as far from Briggs as possible. When I finally sit, enormous pressure releases from my feet and my vision spins in woozy circles.

On the raised stage, two teenagers—both dressed in Nightlight’s camper uniform—emerge from a door behind a large crucifix. They march stiffly to the pulpit, as if they were in a grade school play and it’s time for their big scene. The girl—Black with wide, catlike eyes—dons a short, bobbed wig (the kind you’d find in a yearbook from the sixties) and carries a tray of Dixie cups. Is she Miss Culpepper with the cocoa? The other teenager—a boy—leads her out, softly snapping his fingers—an absentminded tic he can’t seem to help. He’s tall and thick chested, with light brown skin and slicked hair that curls under his ears. With that hair and those black-rimmed glasses, he looks ready to sing “Greased Lightning.” They’ve both stepped out of a time portal from the doo-wop era. Or maybe it’s me who’s time traveled? Back to when people thought nothing of trying to switch kids from gay to straight. When the campers settle beside the Reverend’s pulpit, the candelabra flickers illuminate something else about the boy—he’s beautiful. The eyes behind his retro glasses are large and glossy, as if in a perpetual state of hurt.

It’s only for half a second, but his wounded eyes catch mine looking at him. I jerk away so quickly that my neck tremors with a near-painful spasm.

The Reverend mounts the chapel stage, and Miss Culpepper and Sad Puppy Boy flank him silently to await further instructions. “I’m Reverend Stanley Packard. You’ll hear my staff call me ‘director’ or ‘sir,’ but you—my campers—don’t need to be as formal as all that. You may call me Reverend Packard, which shouldn’t be too hard for Connor to remember.” He waves in my direction, and my hollow stomach lurches again. “Full disclosure, I’ve known Connor Major outside this island. He’s a hometown Ambrose boy, and his mother often helps out at my church. One thing—and forgive me, Mr. Major, but I’m a stickler for details: you told Miss Partridge that your mother and I are friends. We’re not. Your mother and I are friendly.”