Nick’s face falls dark. “I wouldn’t ask you to.”

  Sam stands and turns her back to him to finish getting dressed. She is late—she should be helping Katie take inventory at the crafts shack. He asks if she wants to go into town with her later, after lunch. “I know you hate hot dog day. We could go find some real food.” He says it casually, like they have options. As if there is some new, niche café in town waiting to be discovered. Like there is anything in the entirety of Camp or Smith’s Ridge that Sam isn’t sick to death of eating. She busies herself with the straps of her sandals.

  People know, now. It was bound to happen eventually. The whispers tore through Camp on a riptide, somewhere between rumor and truth. Considering everything else, Taps’s sudden firing and the smoky sky and the heat wave smudging and smothering them, it passed in day or two. No one seems to care what’s real or gossip anymore.

  “Sam? What’s up?”

  She looks up at him. He has his arms folded across his chest, his face flat. What he thinks of her, she can only imagine. “What happened to Taps?” she asks at last.

  “Is that what you’re upset about?” Nick shifts on the edge of his mattress. “Look, I know you guys were friends, but rules are rules, right? He told those campers . . .”

  “I mean before that. He was fired before he said anything, wasn’t he? What happened there?”

  “It was Chard’s decision. He thinks Taps is the one that told Phoebe—”

  “So, whatever Chard decides goes, right?”

  “Yes.” He nods. “You know that.”

  Sam watches him, swallowing a thousand different thoughts. Nick Borowitz is all rhythm and rule, routine and respect. That was why she was attracted to him in the first place. For a moment she can see through his eyes: the world is clear and hard, each new truth an obstacle lined up to knock down. It must be nice.

  “Those kids are screwed up,” he tells her. “He probably ruined their whole summer. The bottom line is, Taps did a bad thing. Even if he wasn’t the one that talked to Phoebe, nothing justifies what he did.”

  Sam picks up her own keychain and loops it over her head. She fingers the radio at her hip and stews over what final words she can toss back at him. He beats her to it.

  “Hey. You’re too caught up in it.” His voice falls flat against her back. “This isn’t real life. It’s a job. A couple more weeks and it’s all going to be over. You’ll be back in Paris.”

  Sam hovers with her hand on the doorknob. “Are you sure?” The very idea of a life in Paris is ridiculous, imaginary. For all Sam knows, she could jab herself with the needle around his neck right now and wake up a different person, in a different world. Just like them.

  Nick doesn’t offer an answer. She leaves the room, jogging down the steps into the empty office.

  Later, during free hour, she helps the Hummingbirds put on a fashion show. They wear underwear on their heads and swimsuit tops and windbreaker sashes. Sam steals glitter from the crafts shack and dusts it over their hair and cheeks. They strut down the aisle between their bunks in an uproar, bellies heaving with delighted laughter.

  Poppy wears a long gown, navy blue. GOD IS A LESBIAN, it says. The hem of the shirt sweeps up dust and hair clumps along the floor slats. Her hair is up in crooked pigtails, her face bright pink with excitement. When she talks, her tongue slips through the gap where her two front teeth should be. One little nub is growing in already.

  “Late last night,” she trills, “while we were all in beh-hed!”

  Sam scoops her up and holds her in her lap. Poppy laughs, and her whole body quakes and squirms.

  Sometimes, she thinks about running. She could take Poppy in the middle of the night. They would be halfway across the country before anyone noticed. They could go back to Paris together; she could raise her as her own daughter. They would lie low, live in a little apartment, sing and cook and read and take on a whole new life.

  Of course, it’s a silly fantasy. She has to grow up and face reality. Poppy is tied to a dying body across the lake. Her life is in Richard Byron’s hands. For all Sam knows, hers is, too.

  She doesn’t know what is going to happen when the summer ends. She can’t quite get a grip on what is real anymore. She holds the wiggling, laughing little body in her arms and feels the warmth of her, the rushing blood beneath her skin. She presses her lips to her temple and measures the heartbeat racing there. Outside, the smoke in the sky is growing thicker. The wildfire is closing in on them. Anxiety sits behind everyone’s eyes, unspoken. It feels like disaster is just around the corner, and they are all biding their time with other worries until it arrives. Sam is ready for it. After everything this summer, it might as well happen. Maybe when the fire comes, it will wake them all up.

  Logan

  It’s funny how something that starts out as a game can become real so quickly. As soon as they’re out of the infirmary, Logan and Hugo begin spreading their version of the Danny McGee story like a fever. Logan tells it to the Ravens late at night with her flashlight under her chin, all of them tucked like bundled babies in their sleeping bags. Hugo tells it at crafts at the barnyard, and again on the lawn while waiting for dinner. It only takes a day or two for their version to become the truth.

  As they tell it, Danny McGee was lonely and mean, a bully. As soon as he arrived at Camp Phoenix, the other kids knew there was something wrong with him. He picked on everyone, or else he lurked in the shadows, watching. He didn’t know how to be nice. The only one who ever took pity on him was a little girl, a loud, pudgy Hummingbird with blond hair and missing teeth. She tried to make friends with Danny when no one else would.

  Danny loved the Hummingbird very much. She was his only friend, and he wanted to keep her forever. One night, he stole the girl out of her cabin and told her they were going on an adventure. They snuck out of Camp together to Lobster Point. Danny wanted to cross the dam and run away into the forest on the other side, but the little girl realized she was being kidnapped and started to scream.

  Luckily, the Falcons were camped out at Lobster Point that night. They heard the Hummingbird crying and came to chase Danny away from her. While their counselor ran to get help, they trapped him on the dam and lit a fire on either side so he couldn’t get away. Danny McGee refused to accept his fate.

  “So he couldn’t be caught and taken to jail, Danny decided to jump.” Hugo always finishes the story in a spooky, floating voice. He’s a good storyteller. “That way, he knew he could stay at Camp forever and never be lonely again. He’s still here now, today, hiding in the trees. Looking for friends. If he picks you, he kills you—and you have to stay here with him.”

  “It’s a good story,” the Ravens tell Logan, visibly frightened.

  Logan shakes her head. “It’s not a story, you guys. That’s what really happened.”

  They laugh at her the first time she says it. A little less loudly the second time. Why not? Logan thinks to herself. Why shouldn’t their story be real? The more she thinks about it, the more sense it makes. Everything strange that has happened to her this summer can be explained by the story. The ghost is as real as anything.

  One morning, they wake up and can hardly see out the cabin windows. The smoke has fallen from the sky and landed on the ground. It’s thicker than fog and smells bitter; the little bit of sunlight streaming through is an ugly reddish orange. Camp looks fake, like a painted scene.

  Mr. Campbell announces at breakfast that most of the outdoor activities will have to be canceled. He jokes that they can’t risk anyone coughing up a lung. At least, his voice makes it seem like he’s joking—the worried look behind his glasses does not. The activities that aren’t canceled make a short and boring list. The Ravens and Hawks are sent back to the mess hall in morning period to play acting games and cards. It all grows old fast, and they wind up sitting in circles on the floor, back on the feverish topic of Danny McGee. The counselor tries to shut Logan up, to make her stop telling her story—that gives her a cool satisfaction. If they don’t want her to tell it, it must be true.

  She ignores Max through the whole period. She still can’t forgive him for breaking Hugo’s nose, or for whatever he said about her at the soccer game. There is something else, too. She doesn’t want to look at him. He is a creeping shadow at the edge of her attention. If she looks, she will see something she doesn’t want to see, she will slip and fall and not be able to get up again.

  At lunch, Logan keeps a close eye on Sam. She watches how she treats Poppy, constantly holding her hand or letting her sit on her lap, clutching her close. She doesn’t handle any of the other Hummingbirds that way. None of the other counselors handle their campers that way. It’s obvious that something is wrong.

  She sneaks out of the cabin at the start of free hour. In the smoky orange air, she is braver, invisible. She is an astronaut exploring a strange new world. Hugo meets her at the bell tower. They walk together, free and alone like they own Camp and everything in it. They whisper, loud and bold: Who’s going to stop them? At the lakeshore, the smoke in the sky is so thick they can’t see the top of the ridge on the other side, only a striking beam of bright red light on the horizon. Logan thinks it’s just the sun breaking through the smoke, but Hugo is sure that it’s firelight. The top of the ridge is burning, he says, in quiet awe. Logan suddenly remembers Spark and swallows a hot dose of worry. She desperately hopes the horse has run far enough by now.

  They sit on the shore between parked rowboats, tossing pebbles into the water. Neither of them has any clue what time it is. “We should go back to our cabins soon,” Logan says.

  Hugo shakes his head. “Let’s not. Let’s stay out here. No one’s even gonna know we’re gone.”

  He is probably right, she realizes. With all the smoke, the sleepy late-summer blur, Sadie could carry on the whole day thinking Logan is right behind her. The lakefront activities have been canceled. They could stay here between the rowboats until nighttime. It’s a creepy, comforting thought.

  “What are they going to do if Camp burns down?” she asks out loud.

  Hugo shrugs. He flicks a little gray pebble between his fingers. It lands with a satisfying plink and ripple. “Send us home, I guess.”

  “Home,” Logan repeats. She wonders what Hugo’s home is like. The lake laps at her bare toes, gray as the sky and warm as bathwater. At the beginning of the summer, it was bone-numbingly cold. “Let’s keep walking. Maybe we’ll find him.”

  “Find who?”

  “You know who.”

  They get up and walk on, away from the lakeshore, past the campfire stage and then back uphill. They avoid the trails and trudge between the trees, dry leaves and needles ankle-deep beneath them. It’s slow-going and a little painful, but new, different. For a while they can be far away from Camp, far from everything they know. They arrive at the ropes course and run across the wide dirt clearing.

  “Remember when Max fell? It was right there, by that tree.”

  “Uh-huh. I remember you crying like a baby.” Hugo punches her.

  Onward, upward. In the distance, the bell chimes for afternoon announcements. They reach the air rifle range.

  “Remember when we were scared of bears?”

  “I was never scared. I told you, I’d shoot a bear right in the face. Pew, pew.”

  They tug at the door to the locker where the guns are kept, but it’s latched tight. To Logan’s annoyance, Hugo keeps working at it, his face determined.

  “What are you going to do with one, anyway? You can’t shoot a ghost with an air rifle.”

  “Maybe I can.” He grunts and pries at the locker door. The rusty metal screeches.

  “Come on. It’s locked. Let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  Logan shrugs. She is light-headed and wild. Probably from all the smoke. “Anywhere.”

  They go sightlessly through the trees. When they reach the creek, they decide to follow it upward. Minutes pass, then what must be an hour. They wonder out loud if anyone is looking for them back down at Camp and giggle at the prospect of it. They talk about walking on forever. Eventually they have to reach a town, Logan thinks out loud. They could steal some food and supplies and set out into the true wilderness. Find Spark and live forever in the forest.

  “What about the fire?” Hugo plays along with her.

  “It’s still far away. Someone will put it out before it gets to us.”

  “I think we’re walking towards it.”

  They pass the rocky lookout point, where Max once offered her his lip balm. A little farther on, the stream is wider and the path along its edge is thinner. They walk in and out of the water, stumbling over slippery rocks, leaves sticking to their wet sandals. It seems like Hugo was right: they are getting closer to the fire. At least, the smoke around them is heavier. It’s hard to see anything. The air smells charred and toxic, and the sun is an evil red orb hanging over the roof of branches. Logan coughs.

  “Look!” Hugo stops and grabs her by the arm.

  “Where?”

  “There!”

  She squints through the shade and smoke. Up ahead, the stream flows from a wide pool. Like something from a dream—or a nightmare, maybe—she can make out the shape of a rickety building between two tree trunks. It has a tiny front porch and a screen door, swung open. “Is that a house?” she whispers.

  “I don’t know. It looks abandoned.”

  “Creepy.”

  Hugo steps forward, but Logan tugs him back. His foot slips from the creek bank and he stomps with a splash into the water. “Hey!”

  “Sorry!” She winces.

  He steps back onto solid ground, shaking pebbles from his wet sandal. “Come on, let’s go check it out.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t like it.”

  “Don’t be a pussy.”

  “I’m not! I just . . .” Logan trails off. She strains her eyes forward and feels her body tense. Her heart flutters. There is movement up ahead. Sharp, human movement. The distinctive creak of a footstep on a wood porch reverberates through the air like a gunshot. Hugo whips his head around and they both stare toward the shack by the pool.

  Someone is standing there, looking at them. It’s not a shadow. There is no mistaking it for a play of the light through the branches or a passing deer or a leaping squirrel. It’s a human body, tall and looming, hands on its hips. The thick smoke and shadows and the burnt light warp and twist it, but it is there—it’s real. Logan hears Hugo’s breath draw deep and fast into his lungs. His hand clamps hard onto her wrist.

  “Say something,” she hisses through her teeth.

  “You,” he mutters back.

  Time stretches and the figure on the shack porch does not move or make a noise. It only sways, just slightly. Eventually Logan clears the lump in her throat. “Hello?”

  “Hello,” a gravelly voice says back. Logan twitches and steps backward. It was not a kid’s voice, but deep and strained. The figure is faceless in the smoke.

  “Are you him?” Hugo asks, his voice high.

  It moves strangely, tottering in place. “Him?” A rumbling laugh sends a shiver down Logan’s spine. It somehow rings from all around instead of from a single point, like the trees themselves are laughing at them. “Sure. I’m him.”

  “No.” Logan shakes her head. “You’re too old to be him. Who are you? Do you live here?” When there is no reply, she lowers her voice. “It’s just some crazy old man, Hugo. Let’s go.” She pulls at his arm.

  “Hugo?” The voice spikes. They both freeze. Logan’s heart hammers. “Hugo Baker? Is that who that is? And little Logan Gill.”

  “Adler,” Logan breathes. Her stomach churns.

  Hugo hovers hesitantly, like he wants to step forward across the creek. Closer to the shack. Then, thinking better of it, he leans back into Logan. His face is frightened, the pink of his cheeks somehow brighter in the dimness. “How do you know us?”

  The whole forest laughs again. “Where exactly are you two going? You running away?” The questions flow in a slow-moving stream, a sticky trickle, with no breaks between them. It sounds inhuman, like whatever is speaking to them only just learned how.

  They share a terrified glance.

  “You know too much, don’t you?”

  In a stroke of bravery, Logan answers. She steps slowly backward as she does, ready to bolt away in case it suddenly comes after them. “We know about you,” she says unsteadily. “We know who you’re trying to kill.”

  “Uh-huh,” the ghost laughs. “Who’s that? Who am I trying to kill?”

  A twig snaps under Logan’s foot. Hugo’s arm is pulled taut; he isn’t moving with her. “Poppy. Her name’s Poppy.”

  “Poppy. Poppy Warbler,” the thick voice drawls. Its arms lift and fold. Like a tree decaying at the roots it sways, then stumbles forward, down from the porch of the shack. Laughter, high and crazed, swoops over them. “That’s done, kiddo. Poppy Warbler is dead.” The ghost is headed for the edge of the water.

  “Hugo!” Logan tugs him harder.

  Hugo is frozen to the spot. “Who are you?”

  “Who do you think, Hugo?” There is a splash—the ghost has reached the stream. A head lifts. Logan can almost make out the face. Arms raise. A mouth opens. “Boo!”

  Hugo leaps into action. He shoves Logan forward as he turns. “Run!”

  They run. They sprint, tumble and fall, pick each other up and run on. Soon they reach the lookout point, and the gold-panning claim; they find the familiar trail and come to a stop, heaving. They are soaked with creek water from the knees down, scraped and bleeding. Hugo’s cheek, still bruised from his fight with Max, has a fresh new cut from a whipping pine branch. He huffs and spits.

  The fear in Logan’s chest is overtaken by a quick, bright rush of joy. “He’s real!” she shouts. “I told you we’d find him!”