Above us, horn music flies from a bird’s nest watchtower so high it climbs above the jungle canopy. A woman’s voice on a record warbles an old, crackling song. Just as the singer belts out a rousing finish, an old man leans out of the nest, his sagging, yet muscled arm gripping a wooden gutter for support. Burly and gray whiskered, like an orangutan stuffed into safari khakis, he bellows the song lyrics a half-step behind the recording.

“Good morning, Bill,” Briggs calls up to Safari Grandpa.

“Welcome back, sissies,” Bill hollers, clucking his tongue disapprovingly. “Breakfast is on, but the girls beat you by three minutes.”

Briggs waves us—the melting, staggering sissies—over the courtyard connecting Bill’s watchtower to the cul-de-sac of cabins. Drew mutters bitchily about me making everyone late, but I don’t care; I’m too busy massaging the heart attack out of my chest. Two of the Beginners hurry ahead into the cafeteria, but it takes all my remaining strength not to collapse and drag myself over the gravel toward food. I lace my fingers behind my head, frantic to steady my breathing, but I’m not alone in my desperation. A third Beginner—the whistling Vance—drops to his hands and begins weeping in large sheets.

“Mr. Carrillo, deal with it,” Briggs sighs, jogging in place with Drew.

“Yes, sir,” Marcos says. Marcos is wearing his own sweat for a coat, but he is a natural runner and barely needs to catch his breath before approaching the blubbering child. He casts an enormous shadow over Vance, choosing to loom overhead rather than help him up. “Vance, don’t cry. The Reverend will hear you.”

But Vance refuses to be consoled. “My stomach hurts!” he wails, rolling onto his back.

“Stop crying, Vance,” Marcos repeats urgently. “You know you gotta.”

Up above, Safari Bill dances along to his brass band music, oblivious to the boy’s fit. The kid is totally losing it. My heartbeat finally settled, I take a knee next to Vance. “My stomach hurts too,” I say. “Running really sucks. Let’s get you up—” I slide my hand behind Vance’s back to scoop him to his feet, but he slaps my arm with a scorpion’s sting.

“You can’t,” he hisses. “You’re not supposed to touch me with your hands.” I jump back to standing, rubbing the welt above my thumb where the little bugger got me.

Fine, have your meltdown.

First Drew, now Vance. Nightlight campers don’t want a lick of help.

“Vance…” Marcos says, commanding the boy’s attention again. His voice rolls out as smoothly as warm maple syrup. “I’m hugging you. I’m comforting you now.” Except he isn’t. Marcos stands two feet apart from Vance, but the kid’s whimpering is already dying off into faint squeaks. “That’s good, Vance. I’m putting you in a big mama bear hug. When I pat the back of your head, you feel so much better. You feel together, you’re on top of the world, and you know you got a friend.”

At last, Vance exhales. He sits, his eyes clearing. “Thank you so much,” he whispers. Wow, that even made me feel better. Marcos smiles softly as the Beginner shuffles toward the cafeteria. He’s ten yards ahead before he spins around. “Are you gonna write about me that I cried?”