“Um, hey!” I shout. “This tank’s empty.”

“That’s it for you, then,” Briggs replies. Already, there’s a bunch of Goddamn snickering.

“But I got all this soap on me.”

“Wait for the next storm.” More laughing. More gay laughing.

After the shower, I beg my way into a dip in the lake to wash off my Tropical Trip, which Briggs agrees to only because my muddy feet incident from last night got him in trouble with the Reverend. When I finally emerge bare-chested from the lake, he and Drew make hilarious retching noises.

Hot gays are so funny. They’re such a good crop of human beings.

I dress while Briggs alerts the campers that our morning drills will be run double-time because I put us behind schedule. Luckily for me, I’m still pulling on my shirt so I’m unable to catch what are most assuredly five aggravated scowls.

My damp, wavy curls aren’t lying the way I want them to, so I roll up my sleeves to better display my arms. I like my arms, I’ve got good arms, and I need to feel better about my body ASAP. Twenty minutes into our double-time drill, I remember why it is I despise running: I get hot and cranky easily, and I hate the noodley way my limbs fly everywhere. At school, when guys kick a ball my way, I refuse to kick it back; that’s another rule. I’m not running or kicking balls, making myself look gay so they can laugh their asses off.

At least we’re running toward breakfast.

At the head of our drill, Briggs jogs backward, hopping raised roots along the Coral Road like a show-off. The Beginners run behind me, panting, while Marcos jogs at the rear to make sure the boys keep to the path. Drew’s pace stays lively at the head of the pack, a dark stripe of sweat lovingly staining his shirt from his neck to the small of his back. Meanwhile, Tropical Storm Connor has soaked me from head to toe since our first lap along the lakeshore. Tropical Storm Marcos has also struck pretty hard—his blue shirt runs black with sweat. As Briggs hollers for more hustle, he dodges the sharp palm fronds jutting out from the dense green surrounding the road. His smiling eyes never break from Drew. The two of them are locked in a strange dance, Drew charging forward and Briggs skipping backward—the gap between them never closing.

Sure, I’ll be a captive audience to this awful thing. Is this just hardcore flirting or do they actually do it? Where would they do it? And Briggs is old enough to be his dad.

Briggs orders us to slow as we approach a signpost for PURA VIDA. The village of Pura Vida is little more than a cul-de-sac of stilted cabins surrounding a gravel courtyard. I never thought I’d be this happy to see a bunch of crummy old shacks, but my chest is on fire and this running bullshit needs to be over yesterday. Around the bend into the village, an arrow points onward for Ambrose Chapel. The way out.