We don’t know what to say to each other, except to share the same petrified expressions that scream, I didn’t dream it, I’m still here.

A minute later, breakfast arrives. Darcy Culpepper, the rail-thin girl in the bob wig we met last night, busses plates of sausage and piping hot scrambled eggs to each table. Another Black female camper I don’t recognize trots after Darcy with an enormous percolator pot. Coffee Girl—a large, beaming young woman with her hair barrette-pinned into a poodle-puff bun—introduces herself as Lacrishia Sims. She pours steaming coffee into our tin cups and then tosses me a bashful smile before moving on to other tables.

Nightlight turned two of its Black campers into waitresses—I shouldn’t be surprised. This camp has a boner for freezing us inside a snow globe of detestable, old-timey America. Just how things are, here in the South Pacific Gulch!

Finally, Darcy and Lacrishia sit to enjoy their breakfasts, and I no longer feel rude digging in. The fork is in my hand, about to dive into savory delights, when the room stands and places their hands over their hearts. Molly and I frown at the realization: prayer time. We pray before we eat, no matter how starved we might be. Ten campers and a dozen staff members sing heartily together:

“Oh, the Lord is good to me,

And so I thank the Lord

For giving me the things I need,

The sun and the rain and the apple seed.

The Lord is good to me!”

A second doesn’t pass before Briggs downs his coffee in a single, greedy swig, and the Gulch fills with a cacophony of scraping silverware. As Molly and I attack our eggs, we investigate Ricky’s Playbill cover to cover, which offers no further clues or warnings other than NIGHTLIGHT and HELP CONNOR. On the page listing South Pacific’s musical numbers, I point out one of them to Molly—“I’m Gonna Wash that Man Right Outta My Hair”—the song Karaoke Bill played a few minutes ago. We aren’t shocked by this discovery so much as consumed with dread by it. I can’t pry the tune out of my head now that I know where it’s from. I inhale a heap of crispy, seasoned home fries, and my thoughts begin to flow more easily: the likeliest explanation for Ricky giving me this Playbill is that he wanted to put me on my guard. Briggs’s friendliness in the airport manipulated me into obedience. If I hadn’t recognized NIGHTLIGHT on their boat, hadn’t been forewarned of the omen by Ricky, how deep into the program would I have gone before I smelled a rat?

How long did you know your mom before you smelled a rat with her? the nasty voice in my head whispers.

The South Pacific Gulch is the loveliest of all the shacks so far at Nightlight. Picture windows run floor to ceiling, allowing us an unspoiled view of the tropical jungle beyond the Coral Road. Rust-colored benches line a dozen tables; far more than they need, even with all campers and staff accounted for. Nightlight’s popularity must be shrinking to only a few remaining wealthy fanatics. Back in Ricky’s day, these benches were probably overflowing with “troubled” teens.