“I CAN FAKE IT.” I grind my teeth so hard, my neck cramp escalates into a headache. “You don’t know what this month has been like for me. The last person who gave me advice on coming out and never hiding and fighting back and blah, blah, blah was my boyfriend, and it screwed me over. As for your ‘wing it’ escape plan, an ex-camper I know somehow got an injury that made him nearly quadriplegic, and every staff member here has a mega-charged taser and isn’t afraid to stick me with it. So, I’m sorry, but I’m leaving in a week, and I’m leaving safely.”

“All right.” Molly struggles through another sip of dark, medicinal coffee. “But you ought to know my cabinmates over there sound like they’ve been waiting a long time for their ship to come in. Ask your boys how successful they’ve been at faking it—”

“More coffee, dumplings?” Lacrishia asks, startling us and shaking an almost-empty percolator.

“No, um, thanks,” I say, slurping my half-drunk brew. “I’m awake.”

Lacrishia giggles through her nose while Molly thrusts her cup forward: “Fill ’er up.”

“Sorry,” Lacrishia says, wincing. “Girls are only allowed one coffee per day.” She floats away with her percolator as Molly’s face collapses into a mask of fury. We’ve stumbled onto another one of Nightlight’s arbitrary, hypocritical rules: “Return to nature! But here’s some supermarket shower gel. Boys don’t belong in the kitchen! But here’s a jaunty musical number to start your morning!”

I offer Molly the rest of my cup, but she waves me off, preferring to drink her own disgust instead. Hot on Lacrishia’s heels, Darcy bops over and reaches for our plates. “All done with these?” she asks in a light New Yawk accent. Molly and I nod, both full and vaguely nauseated. As Darcy plunks forks and knives onto our greasy plates, her smile never wanes. “Limiting our coffee intake keeps us calm and agreeable.” My stomach tightens as Darcy burns with a strange intensity. “You two shouldn’t whisper. When you whisper, people lean in to hear. Talk in a normal voice; that’s when people tune out.” Darcy reports this nugget of information in a normal volume as she piles our coffee cups onto the stack of plates. “You were whispering, and I was right over there. Now I know Molly is planning to run for the boat, like nobody’s ever thought of that. And Connor is planning to fake it through a week and go home, like nobody’s thought of that, either.” She lifts her head, smile frozen. “Welcome to our crisis, already in progress.”