Don’t do that to yourself, he told her, once. You can’t start thinking like that. Sam looks down at him and finds herself strangely pleased. Here she stands, stronger, holding him together. “I feel that way, too,” she tells him. They look at each other. Maybe the two of them are like Logan and Max Gill, after all—old and beaten down and desperately trying to rekindle something they lost, something they never really had to begin with. Maybe they are Poppy Warbler and Hugo Baker, once great and past their prime. Maybe they ought to get up and start running.

  Sam drops to her knees at his chair, trying to think of something clever. Nick sniffles. He grips her face in both hands. His eyes run over her, like he is going to say something, but Sam cuts him short by bringing her palm down hard against the front of his chest. Thump. Nick recoils and lets go of her. He blinks, then laughs. Sam smacks him again. He does it back, crooking his elbow at an awkward angle to tap against her sternum.

  Thu-thump. Thu-thump. Thu-thump. They must look ridiculous. Sam feels the smile spread over her face. They laugh like they’ve won, like they’ve finally figured it all out. Thu-thump. Thu-thump. Thu-thump.

  Nick pulls her upright and they stand like that, a foot of space between them, swatting each other’s chests and laughing. He steps closer and kisses her, and Sam kisses him back. Her head spins sleepily. It’s supposed to be this way, she thinks. If he is right, if they are just like the campers, then nothing really matters, anyway. They can do whatever they want. Can, and should. He lifts her onto the desk, shoving papers and scattering pens. Sam hooks her legs around his waist and fumbles with the buttons of his flannel shirt. To hell with the missing kids, to hell with all of it. Nothing is real.

  The clatter of the screen door breaks them apart.

  “Are you kidding me?”

  Sam turns. Campbell stands at the office door in plaid red pajama pants and a hooded sweatshirt. Emerson High Junior Varsity Lacrosse. He holds one hand to his forehead, eyes wide, nostrils flared. Close behind him, Elias is red-faced with horror.

  Sam scoots sheepishly off the desk. A single loose notecard flutters to the floor beneath her. As Nick opens his mouth to explain—or apologize—Campbell shakes his head and holds up an open palm toward them. Sam can see the anger roll in a lump down his throat. “Okay,” he begins. “Okay. I’m going to turn around, and I’m going to come back in, and this is not happening.” After spitting the last few words, he pivots and slams the screen door behind him. Elias jumps out of his path.

  Nick clears his throat and rebuttons his shirt. Sam winces guiltily at Elias. Sorry, she mouths. He frowns like he isn’t sure whether to laugh or scream.

  Three loud stomps mark his progress across the porch, then Campbell is back. He blinks quite a few times before speaking. “You.” He points an accusatory finger at Nick. “Stay here. Sam, come with us. We’re going to drive up the road and see if we can’t find them.” At that, he turns and leaves again.

  The Camp pickup idles just outside, rumbling, its headlights casting solid beams through the smoke. A dark figure sits in the passenger’s seat—Sam doesn’t need to see his face to know who. She clambers up onto the open tailgate beside Elias. He looks at her, his face half lit in grayish yellow. His voice is barely audible over the truck’s engine.

  “We’ll find them. You know he wouldn’t hurt her.”

  Sam nods. “I know he wouldn’t.”

  “Sam!” Nick comes loping down the office steps. He reaches the back of the truck and shoves his outstretched hand into hers. The panic, whatever momentary lapse had come over him, is gone. He smiles his old, thin smile. In her hand is his worn black lanyard, the keyring with its jangling keys and the little metal cylinder between them. “Just in case,” he says quietly. Then, louder, toward the driver’s side window: “Try Lobster Point! We took them swimming out there today.”

  The dam, Sam thinks—of course. The truck’s horn blares, Campbell telling Nick to get out of the way. He gives her arm a grateful squeeze and steps back. The truck jerks into gear. As they roll away, Sam hangs the keychain around her neck and tucks it beneath her sweatshirt, where the needle sits cold and hard in the well of her chest, rising in tune with each nervous breath.

  They drive slowly all the way there. Elias and Sam shine their flashlights along the sides of the road and shout the names of the campers. In the lull between shouts, she can hear the men talking, their voices a steady drone. She wonders how many times something like this has happened to them, if they are scared.

  The truck pulls off the road at Lobster Point and parks just beside the pile of ash left from their nightly bonfires. Sam and Elias slide off the tailgate. “Hugo!” Elias calls, tossing his flashlight beam around the trees.

  “El.” Sam grabs him by the elbow. “The dam.” Now that they are here, it seems so obvious. “The story.”

  Elias nods. Richard Byron, in jeans and a heavy flannel, steps down from the passenger’s-side door. He is alert, bright, shining over them. “What story?”

  Sam leads the way from the campsite toward the water. The last time she walked this trail she was stumbling, drunk; the memory hits her with a surge of hot embarrassment. It strikes her as funny, how a serious situation can dig out the most prickling, menial feelings. She hears the rush of water, rounds a thick trunk, and then she can see the lakeshore, and the dam, a thick strip of black across reflective, calm water. She sees them first, frozen in the beam of her flashlight. Then she hears them. Five little figures stand on the concrete wall, shouting over the rush and splatter of the spillway. She picks up her pace.

  A heavy hand thuds into her shoulder from behind. “Turn the light off,” he hisses in her ear. Sam does as she is told. All four of them approach the edge of the dam, a slippery hill where dirt meets concrete. The kids are shouting, indiscernible. Byron takes the lead, stepping out from the shadows of the trees with spread arms.

  “Hello!” he calls out to them. He stands still at the end of the dam.

  Sam can see them more clearly now as her eyes adjust to the absence of the flashlight beams. She sees the rifles in their hands. She sees rounded cheeks and gaping mouths, and a little glare of moonlight reflecting off owlish lenses. For a second, she stands back and finds the scene horribly beautiful.

  “It’s him!” the kids yell. One of the taller shadows reaches out and grips the littlest; Sam hears the clear, high shriek she knows so well. A shock of blond hair swings. She thinks to run for Poppy, but Richard Byron is blocking the path onto the dam. He holds her back with one steady arm.

  “Kids! Come on back here!” Campbell calls from behind them. His shout is somewhat broken, quieter than it could be. Elias stands still and silent.

  “Hush,” Byron whispers over his shoulder. “Give them their moment. Let them work it out.”

  There is some commotion out on the dam. Their voices rise. Someone has Poppy by the shoulders. Sam lets herself be held back. She could fight. She could get around him, if she really wanted to. He looks down at her in the smoky moonlight and shakes his head, and Sam stands quietly waiting.

  Logan

  They turn their rifles toward the edge of the dam. Logan’s heart races with excitement. It was a long, toe-stubbing journey out of Camp, past the glowing barn full of counselors and down the road to Lobster Point. She felt jittery and bright, shot through with static electricity, as they crossed the slippery dam walkway. They set and baited their trap. Now the ghost has arrived, just like Hugo predicted. A flicker of lights, a moment of tense silence, and a figure appears from the shadows. Logan recognizes it, tall and dark and looming. Its arms reach toward them. “Hello!”

  “What now?” Max whispers. Logan hears the click of the safety on Hugo’s gun. They hold them up like they really know how to use them.

  Poppy—she has been in high spirits, happy with their adventure, up until now—lets out a little whimper. Logan puts an arm across her to protect her from the ghost. Poppy squeals.

  “Hey!” Logan pulls her arm back like she bit her.

  Another voice cuts through the night at them. This one is weaker, not ghostly at all. “Kids! Come on back here!”

  Milly stands at the edge of the group, closest to the shoreline. She turns a confused grimace back to the rest of them. Her air rifle is still raised, butt to her shoulder, finger on the trigger.

  “Wait a minute.” Max lowers his gun. Logan looks at him, and something heavy sinks in her chest. “That’s not him,” he says. He is quiet now.

  Logan squints at the figure on the end of the dam. “Yes, it is.” She raises her own rifle. Her safety is on, but that doesn’t matter. She is holding it.

  “No, it’s not. That’s just some guy.” Max puts one hand on Poppy’s shoulder, holding her tight. As if he wants to run off into the forest with her. “We’re being silly.”

  “No, we’re not!” No one looks fiercer behind their rifle than Hugo. He has one eye closed, the other squinting into the shadows through his scope. His face is a twisted sneer. “That’s gotta be him!”

  As Logan watches, the ghostly figure moves closer. Hugo stands at the back of the group. When he pulls his trigger, there is a loud pop and she can hear the BB rush over their heads. Milly slaps her hands to her ears. Poppy screams. From the shore, where the ghost of Danny McGee looms, comes a sudden grunt and shout.

  “What the fuck?”

  Logan gasps. She lowers her air rifle. There is more than one person there at the edge of the water. She can see their black shapes shifting.

  Max shakes his head. He leans down to rest his gun on the concrete at their feet, then he grips the skinny guardrail with both hands. Poppy stands between his arms. They both face outward, out toward the old fish hatchery and the dark world beyond. Logan feels sick. Her head wobbles. She grips the rail herself, the metal cool against her palm. She looks toward Milly, hoping for a dash of confidence, but Milly isn’t looking back at her.

  “I think I hit him!” Hugo cheers.

  “That’s not him,” Max says, barely over a whisper. His profile, framed in murky silver, transforms as Logan watches. His eyes go dull. His chin drags down. His shoulders bow.

  Poppy tilts her head up at him. “Did we get him? Did you kill him?”

  Max slaps the guardrail. “It’s not him!” His yell frightens Poppy, who shrieks again and slips out from under his arms. She shuffles to her left, toward where Milly stands. Max goes on shaking his head. “We’re being silly,” he says again. “This is just a game. There is no ghost.”

  Voices mutter from the lakeshore. Movement in the shadows. He is right, Logan realizes—nothing is waiting there but regular people. Counselors, out looking for them. They are going to be in so much trouble. She has stopped on the tightrope; she is looking down. Her head hurts. Behind her, Hugo still holds up his rifle. “Yes, there is,” he insists, brave as ever. “He’s here. He’s here for her.” He nods toward Poppy. “He’s gonna come out here to try to get her, and we’re gonna throw him over.”

  Max leans sideways against the railing to face Hugo, shouting past Logan at him. “There is no ghost! It’s just people!”

  Something shifts in Hugo’s face. He looks at Max down the barrel of his gun. “No . . .” he says, slowly. “Hang on. You’re him.” He aims over Logan’s shoulder, straight into Max’s face.

  “What?”

  “The ghost possesses people!” Hugo cries, high and eager. “That’s it! He possessed some old guy up at that cabin, and now he’s possessing Max! That’s Danny McGee!”

  Logan looks between the two of them. She glances again at Milly, who stands behind Poppy, sunken and confused.

  “You’re crazy!” Max yells. Below them, the spillway roars on. “We’re all crazy. We’re all crazy!” He is screaming, now, louder than he needs to. “The ghost is made up! It’s just a story! It’s just distracting us from the thing!”

  “What thing?” Milly asks. Her shadowed face is full of fear. She, too, looks suddenly older.

  “You know. We all know! Taps told us, remember?” Max turns on Logan. She lifts her gun halfway, unsure. “None of this is real. Don’t you remember what he said? Don’t you remember me, Logan?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t listen to him,” Hugo begs her. “He’s Danny!”

  Max does not stop. He stands tall against the rail, his body facing outward, his head turned toward Logan. She grips the rifle down low, at her waist. “I remember you,” he says. “I remember everything. I do. Taps was right.” He is melting before her eyes. His face droops, downward, downward, downward. “Loges, it’s me. Please. I want to get out of here. Let’s just go now. Let’s jump, and everything will be back to normal. I want to get out.”

  “Don’t listen to him, Logan!”

  Poppy has started to cry. Her sobs rise and mingle with the falling water, crashing into the black far below.

  “Come on, Logan. Let’s get out of this place. This fucked-up place. Let’s go home!”

  Logan hesitates. She stares hard at Max. Max—like a breath of fresh air or a hard knock on the back of her head, she realizes—or, at least, she thinks she does. The thought passes in a flash, whatever it is. Fear and thrill take over. She raises her air rifle and clicks the safety to off. “You’re not Max. You’re the ghost. You’re the murderer.”

  “No. Logan, listen.”

  “No!” Logan shouts. She is strong, now, growing stronger from the inside out. “I’m not listening! You’re the ghost. We caught you. You want to jump, then jump! Jump, Danny, jump!”

  The cold barrel of Hugo’s rifle rests against her shoulder. His voice rises, gleeful. “Yeah! Jump, Danny, jump!”

  “Wait . . .” Milly steps back on the walkway, lowering her gun. As she does, the tip of her air rifle smacks against the guardrail. The thrumming thwang rattles over the sound of the water. Logan looks at her and feels only more rage.

  “Come on, Milly. Look at him. You know it’s him. Jump, Danny, jump!”

  Poppy stops crying. Her face falls soft and curious; Logan can see it in the gap between Max and the rickety railing, still swaying from the force of Milly’s gun. As she watches, Max looks out at the smoky night air. His fingers, curled on the guardrail, peel slowly upward. Until this moment Logan didn’t even realize—he isn’t wearing the wrist brace anymore.

  “Jump, Danny, jump!” Hugo shouts on.

  The rail is level with Max’s waist. He bends down slowly and crouches under it, then stands again on the other side. It isn’t real. This is still just a game. Nothing is really going to happen.

  Still, she chants at him. “Jump, Danny, jump!”

  Max’s hands are off the railing. He twists his head to look back, and Logan catches a spark of something—his eyes are smiling again, his face is back to normal. He’s just playing along. He is going to say something.

  “Jump, Danny, jump!”

  A flash of blond, like a gust of wind, rushes across Logan’s middle. Poppy has joined in the game. She shouts along with them. Her little arms reach under the rail. It’s just a step and a stomp, and a shove, like in Capture the Flag. She is strong for someone so small. Max’s hands jerk up and outward, but there is nothing to grab.

  Logan holds her air rifle to her chest. Max tips forward quietly, and gravity takes him. For the second time this summer, she watches him fall.

  Sam

  For a moment, she has a choice. The campers come running back along the dam, shouting, their toy guns dragging forgotten at their sides. Poppy is first. She must have been the first to look away and start running. Richard steps sideways and allows Sam to sprint out onto the cement ridge; she catches Poppy and lifts her up. Standing with her clung tight to her chest, she looks backward up the trail.

  The truck is still parked at the campsite. The keys are in the ignition. She could run. She could take Poppy and go. Distracted as everyone is, they won’t know to chase her.

  The other three campers reach them, wild-eyed, screaming Max’s name. Sam knows, now, who went under the rail. In the darkness she could only see a shadow waving its arms. Elias clutches his shoulder where the BB hit him. “Hugo!” He snatches the boy by the hood of his sweatshirt, yanking him from the edge of the dam and onto the dirt. Hugo falls on his back. He looks up, fearful.

  “Elias?”

  “Sam?” Logan is at her side. She stammers. “I . . . He . . .”

  “Where is Max?” Campbell barks. He tears the air rifles from the children’s hands one at a time. He must know, Sam thinks—he had to have seen the falling shadow as clearly as she did. Maybe he is in denial. Maybe he wants to make them say it.

  Milly Meyer chokes back a sob. “He fell.”

  Sam wavers, her arms trembling under Poppy’s weight. She could still run. She looks back up the trail. The warm body, pressed hard against her chest, digs the metal of the keyring into her skin. Frightened fingers cling to the fabric of her sweatshirt. Sam looks between Campbell and Byron, and in an instant the moment passes. She kneels and manages to pry Poppy off her. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

  Poppy shakes her head, reaching to grab her again. She whimpers. Campbell crouches to pull her into his own arms, presses her head against his shoulder. As he shushes her, Sam turns and takes off running.

  The trail to the bottom of the dam is steep and poorly maintained. Sam stumbles over roots and rocks. She should have gone back up to the truck and taken the road around to the old hatchery, but it’s too late now. Halfway down, the path smooths out and she breaks into a cautious sprint. The black pool is shallow at the base of the wall. Misting droplets blur her vision as she splashes forward. Not unlike Pike Falls, the flow spilling over the dam is much more impressive from below.