“For what?” I ask.

“Uh, you know…choking you with a stick on the beach.”

“Oh my God, don’t worry about it,” I laugh with a mouthful of home fries. Our dramatic arrival on the shores of Nightlight Island feels like ten lifetimes ago.

Over Molly’s shoulder, Karaoke Bill shambles between our tables, each step of his mud-stained combat boots leaving a filthy trail. Through tangles of white-gray hair, he has foam-padded headphones shoved over his ears and hums along to a selection of his own private music. I can’t make out the song, but I miss my earbuds like I’m missing a limb.

As Bill closes in on our table, I return Ricky’s Playbill to my pocket. “You two didn’t sing along with the breakfast hymn,” Bill admonishes, wagging a blistered finger toward a placard on the cafeteria wall: in block letters are the lyrics to the “Johnny Appleseed” hymn. “You get one free pass, but tomorrow, I want to hear those pipes of yours loud and flawless.” He leans close, the full blast of his sour body odor threatening to turn us all off our breakfasts. His crinkled skin runs deeply red, almost purple; there’s a looseness to it, as if the top layer could peel off as easily as baked chicken skin. What exact function does Bill serve at Nightlight? He plays showtunes, cracks jokes, and shuffles around like the town drunk in a western.

“Make believe you’re at a Pride parade if it helps you sing better,” Karaoke Bill chuckles before moseying along to unsettle other campers.

“I’ve sung a churchy song before,” Molly whispers, rolling her eyes.

“Right?” I laugh. “Like our tongues are gonna roll back in our throats if we have to say the word Jesus.”

“So, Darcy and Lacrishia told me we’re here for a weeklong probation”—Molly nods silently for a moment—“then we get reviewed.”

“A week?” I pluck Molly’s last sausage link from her plate—she’s been ignoring it too long, and eating is my only medicine. “So, what, we just play along, pass the review, and go home?”

“Uh-huh, that’s one plan.” Her chest rises and falls on a shuddering breath. “But if we don’t pass the review, our one-week stay is automatically extended to three months.”

Three months?

Nightlight’s dirt-bitter coffee scalds my insides as I remember the Winner’s Wall—so many campers left in a different year than the one they arrived in. Like Briggs. And Ricky. I’d have to delay my senior year. I’ll miss college application dates. Ario will move away, find someone new, and forget I ever meant anything to him. Mom won’t let this happen. She couldn’t pay for three months, anyway, even if the Reverend gave her a “friendly” discount.

“We better pass our review, then,” I chuckle, dropping Molly’s half-eaten sausage back to her plate. It’s grossing me out.

“Or…”—Molly lowers her whisper further—“or you and I run to the beach. We steal their boat and get the hell out of here right now.”

“How?”