Liam’s eyes tried to catch mine as I pulled away. My head ached, physically ached for him. It was too dangerous to stand so close to him.

“Not right now,” I whispered.

Liam’s brows drew together, and his lips parted with something he wanted to say. After a moment, he only nodded and turned back toward the cabin, bounding up the steps.

I needed to get as far away from them as I could, at least until the trilling inside of my head died down. There was no plan or map involved; I just set off down a nearby path. A few kids, all strangers, called after me in concern, but I ignored them, following the smell of mud and molding leaves until I found the lake we had passed.

The trees and brush had overgrown the path down to the T-shaped wooden dock, and where there weren’t plants in my way, there was a rope, along with a sign that warned DO NOT ENTER.

I slipped under it and kept heading down, not stopping until I sat on the edge of the old sun-bleached dock and put my head between my knees, listening to the sounds of kids laughing and yelling in the distance, wondering when the feeling would return to my legs long enough for me to stand, and when the imprint of Clancy Gray’s voice would fade.

Alone, I thought, lying down on the old wood. Finally alone.

Dinner was served at exactly seven that night. There was no intercom or alarm system in the camp, but there were cowbells. Apparently that was a universal call for food, because once the first bell rang, others echoed back, spreading the noise through the cabins and trails, all the way down to where I sat studying my reflection in the dark water.

It was easy enough to find the action—two hundred–odd kids gathered around a raging bonfire to eat wasn’t exactly subtle. My feet slowed the closer I came, watching as a few of the older boys threw more logs into the fire’s grasping fingers. Rings of old logs provided makeshift seats for those who already had their food and didn’t want to eat alone in their cabins.

The kids we had seen in the kitchen had set up a table full of what looked like slow cookers and were making runs between the office building and the fire to replenish them. Dozens of kids waited in line for their turn at the pots, their plastic bowls pressed against their chests in anticipation.

I spotted Liam straight off, standing rather than sitting on one of the logs. He had a bowl of chili in each hand and was scanning the area. Chubs would have walked right by him if Liam hadn’t nudged him as he passed. He asked Chubs something, but I caught only part of his response.

“Uh, no thanks. I read Lord of the Flies. I know how this works—everyone starts dancing around the fire and painting their faces and worshipping a decapitated pig head and then someone gets hit by a boulder and plummets to their death—and, surprise, it’s the fat kid in glasses.” Liam started laughing, but even I could see how uncomfortable Chubs looked. “I think I’m going to play it safe and go read—and, hey, there’s Ruby! You two can enjoy the degeneration of human decency without me.”