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.

Across rows of empty tables, Marcos giggles with Darcy and Lacrishia. They sang the breakfast blessing loudest, prompting a telling-off from Karaoke Bill: “A little less gospel, thank you!”

Three Beginner boys eat with three just-as-shockingly young Beginners from the girls’ cabin: two of them white and husky, the third taller and dark skinned. Bill dines with Briggs, Archie, and five other men—all in gray staff T-shirts. Ramona, still in her hideous, lemon-print dress from last night, eats politely by herself and dabs her lips with a napkin after each bite. After the Reverend, I hate Ramona the most. Her smug smile when she forced me to delete Ario is tattooed onto my brain.

The remaining table is for Drew Schreiber—all alone, as requested. He digs into a parfait with strawberries and blueberries, the rest of us with our oily eggs and sausage. I didn’t notice any parfait on the breakfast menu. What makes him so special?