At the bottom of the totem pole was Rex Hasselbach, with a body as awesome to behold as though he were descended from the actual trolls of myth. He was six-foot-five and made of muscle. There was also the unfortunate wine-dark birthmark on his back that resembled a poop emoji. A few might go so far as to say he was cute, when observed from very specific angles, that he should bear the poop emoji as an emblem of pride, but for now his loner vibe combined with his inability to literally fit in with any particular cabal made him a chew toy for budding sociopaths in smartphone withdrawal. Clayton had connected with Rex over their shared love of horror—they both agreed that Nancy Thompson from A Nightmare on Elm Street was their favorite final girl. (Rex: “I feel a lot like a final girl sometimes. But Nancy figures out how to survive her dysfunctional family and outsmart Freddy Krueger. I haven’t done that!” Clayton: “Tell me about it. I don’t feel like my family really wants me, but I’m no Nancy.”) That said, Rex was not a good dude himself and had done a thing so bad online that none of the other counselors would openly talk about it, which frustrated Clayton no end. It was triggering for him to always be the last to know any bit of juicy gossip. He wanted—no, needed—to be wanted and included, so when a search party was put together after Rex didn’t answer attendance at breakfast, he volunteered to join. Of course, Bev and Lare Bear had immediately offered themselves up as sacrificial lambs, as they were clearly knocking boots a zillion times from Sunday. But Clayton, cockblocker extraordinaire, would keep those middle-aged hormones in check and finally get his intel. How far could the big guy have gone, really?

Nevertheless, by noon they had scoured the whole of Vineyard Haven, and no dice. Bev dutifully dragged them to each shop with wind chimes on the door and chintzy tourist crap inside. While explaining their predicament, she described Rex as “temporarily AWOL” rather than “missing.” Clayton liked Bev. In a few years she’d become the kind of woman who measured her life in Labradoodles, but for now she laughed at his jokes and was cool in a kooky aunt sort of sense. He liked Lare Lare, too. He could use a few lessons in how to lighten up, but he remained mysteriously likable. They were idling in the parking lot of the ferry office, Bev’s raggedy and soda-stained Volkswagen sputtering out rock music from a station on the mainland. Dads were driving Beemers into the cargo hold of the big boat, set to depart any minute, and couples with interlocked arms and important magazines tugged matching luggage up the gangplank.

“Maybe we should mosey out of town and see if Rex is hanging out at one of those alpaca farms,” Clayton suggested.

“Did he say he’d like to visit one?” Bev asked.