The dormitory was unlit when we entered, but I could see that the wood supports of the bunk beds had been painted a dark green; the effect was of an encroaching forest, a bedroom Birnam Wood. The only single bed was positioned next to the door we had come through; Magda stepped protectively in front of it. The space was littered with sharp-colored detritus: suitcases half-gutted and abandoned, bottles of shampoo laid out on beds, sneakers all over the floor. But it smelled like cedar, and it was dark and cool, and there was a wide mirror on the back wall that reflected the door. Even then, before it all happened, I’d been the kind of girl who needed to be able to see the door in every room, to clock the exits, register all potential avenues of approach. It wasn’t cowardice, not exactly. I just wanted to see my murderer first. I wanted to see the blade, or the gun, or whatever it was going to be. Noose, wrench, kitchen knife. At home, I would bare my throat to the tight-latched door of my bedroom, eyes on the shadows until I fell asleep. But you know what they say: curiosity killed, etc.

The Center’s annual summer program was called “Special Teen Retreat: Becoming a Warrior in Body, Mind, and Heart.” The website had boasted that we’d spend eight weeks exploring the possibilities that unfold when we are fully present in the moment, and also that we’d deepen our awareness of our actions and their effect on the world, and also that there’d be lots of heart-cleansing activities. There was no air-conditioning. There was no internet connection. There was no cell service. We would be carefully supervised at all times. That “Special” was code, you see. Privately, I called it Buddhist Boot Camp for Bad Girls. I was looking forward to the heart-cleansing activities.