Sam and Nick rise from their seats to follow him out of the waiting area and into the elevator. They leave the facility the same way they came in: through the maze, down another hallway of blue doors, and out through a squat basement entrance. It’s dusk, campfire time; blue fades to black over the tips of the pines. The facility attendant—an alien, a citizen of another universe, who looks over their heavy wristwatches and dirt-streaked faces bemusedly—hands off the boy and his X-rays and vanishes back inside the building. Sam and Nick brace the camper and lift him into the old Camp pickup together. In the tiny cab of the truck, they must look like a bad comedy, like two bumbling killers, their hapless victim propped between them.

  They park as close to the infirmary as they can to gracelessly carry Max inside. His face is battered and swelling. His wrist is in a navy blue cast up to the elbow. In the infirmary bed he mumbles and groans. His eyes flicker open, unseeing.

  The Camp nurse is a sensible old woman with a stern, pinched mouth. “Lucky boy,” she says dryly, pulling a blanket up to Max’s chest. In her other hand she holds a bottle of sickly pink antacid for the vomiting Pigeon in the next room over.

  “Probably not the childhood experience he had in mind,” Nick says.

  Nurse May waves the pink bottle dismissively at him. “The way they drugged him up, he’s barely going to remember it. That cast will just give him a little character.”

  Sam follows Nick from the room, and they step outside onto the infirmary porch. Night has fallen in full. Two silent figures stand in the buttery half-glow of the windows, their arms crossed, facing outward toward the lake. The singing voices from the campfire float toward them on the night air.

  Look up to the moon, moon, moon,

  Hug every rock and tree,

  I will take care of you, my friend,

  If you take care of me.

  The solitary bell chime sounds. In the ringing silence that follows, Sam is struck with a pang of nostalgia tinged with anxiety. Richard Byron and Gus Campbell both shift and unfold their arms as the spell of the song breaks. Campbell turns to Nick, and they begin discussing the camper in low voices.

  “Miss Red.”

  Sam looks up. Byron is smiling down at her. He’s a big man, she realizes, standing so close. Tall and imposing. A lock of peppery gray sits at a jaunty angle across his brow.

  “Hi.” She returns his smile.

  There is something undeniably, giddily exciting about standing so close to him. He is a mystery to her, the boss of her boss, shrouded in legend. A genius with a troubled past, they say. An orphan. Mad scientist. Recovered alcoholic—according to some, ‘recovered’ is a loose term. “He drinks,” Elias told Sam once, knowingly. “It’s a part of his brand. Everybody loves a self-medicated genius.” Elias admires Richard Byron. A lot of people admire him; genius or not, he is wildly successful. Under his gaze, Sam finds herself flustered.

  His eyes are bright, as if fighting laughter. “Nicky,” he says, “your new shadow’s a hell of a lot prettier than you, you know that?”

  All three of them chuckle. Sam feels his stare fall over her again. She wipes at her face, expecting to find a glob of toothpaste or sunscreen. He reaches out and lays a warm, broad hand on the back of her neck. The men keep talking, all stern business and throat-clearing, and if it weren’t for the hand on the back of Sam’s neck, she would be sure this was her time to leave, to go back to her Hummingbirds.

  “Phoebe’s new. She’d never led a ride on her own before. Elias was supposed to be training her.”

  “New or not—you don’t take the horses through ropes. She should have known that. Someone should have told her that.”

  “That mare’s been skittish since we got her. The owners told us to always saddle her with the heaviest rider.”

  “Mr. Gill, I take it, was the heaviest in the group?”

  “That’s what Elias says.”

  Sam watches this conversation play out, curious. They are gambling, spinning a wheel, guessing at where the blame should land.

  “Well, we can’t keep that horse in the stables anymore.”

  “She’ll be gone by next week. If they won’t take her back, I’ll have Dane start digging a hole.”

  “And what about the counselors responsible?”

  Campbell’s face twists into a sorry grimace. His expression is lengthened by the shadows, dragging his frown lines downward, exaggerated, cartoonish. “That’s your call, Rich,” he says. “When it comes down to it, it’s always your call.”

  The hand on the back of Sam’s neck lifts and falls in a gentle, affectionate pat. Silence settles on the porch. Not far off, they can hear the stream of sleepy, manic campers headed for bed. The occasional high shout and cackle peppers the buzz.

  “Sam?”

  She blinks up.

  “Can I chat with you for a minute?”

  Sam nods. Her mouth has gone chalky. “Sure.”

  He guides her away from the porch, out of reach of the light. Nick and Campbell’s conversation carries on behind them. They follow the trail to a moonlit fork; to the right is the parking lot and the road to Smith’s Ridge, and to the left is the center of Camp, the clamoring voices. Byron stands with his hands in his pockets and smiles at her. “How is Poppy Warbler?”

  “Poppy?” Sam laughs. It’s strange to hear him say her name, strange to think her existence has anything to do with him. “She’s, uh . . .”

  “A handful, isn’t she?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, that’s a good way to put it.”

  “Right. I expected as much. Once a rockstar, always a rockstar.” He cocks an eyebrow at her. “You know, it says a lot about you, that Gus and Nick knew you could handle that cabin. On top of this little shadowing gig they’ve got you on. Looks like you’re top of the class this summer.”

  “Oh. I don’t know.”

  “Better not fuck it up, huh?”

  Sam stares up at him in the weak light. A joke, she realizes, half a second too late. Byron cracks a smile at her stunned silence, then guffaws, throwing his bearded chin to the moon. Sam lets herself chuckle along.

  “Listen,” he begins as his booming laugh patters down. He shifts his stance to look at her, and Sam can’t help but notice the youthful way he moves, the flex of his biceps beneath flannel sleeves. She has no idea how old the owner of Camp Phoenix is, exactly, but he is certainly in the best health money can buy. “I’m going to need your advice, Miss Red. If you don’t mind.”

  “Okay.”

  “This is complicated. It’s difficult to explain, but there’s a tricky balance between the clients and the campers. Keeping them both happy. It’s sort of like dealing with children and their parents, if you know what I mean. Kids want to have fun. Parents want their kids to be safe.” Byron watches her carefully, as if to make sure she tracks his every word. “So, when something bad happens, something like this, someone needs to be held accountable. For the sake of the client. Do you understand?”

  Slowly, unsurely, Sam nods.

  “That kid up there.” He gestures vaguely behind them, toward the infirmary. “I know it’s hard to remember sometimes—that’s by design, of course—but he’s a grown man. He’s a paying client. A client who had some reservations about the program to begin with, I should add. When the consciousness transfer is withdrawn in August, he is going to be upset about what happened to him. He’s going to want to know what actions I took to make it right.”

  “But . . .” Sam bites back the thought, then releases it anyway. “But he’s fine, isn’t he? It’s just a broken wrist.”

  Byron’s smile is proud, as if she has said exactly the right thing. “You’re right. He is going to be fine, and he’ll be able to enjoy the rest of his summer. But let’s say, for the sake of argument, that he wasn’t fine. Do you know what would happen then?”

  “You mean . . . ?”

  “Yes. I mean if he’d hit that branch a little harder. If he’d landed on his neck, instead of his arm. Do you know what happens if one of them dies?”

  She isn’t sure what to say, if she should know. “They wake up, right?”

  He laughs. “Well, yeah. They do wake up. But before they wake up, they die. As a child. These kids have no clue what’s going on here. They don’t know they’re going to wake up. They don’t know where they’re going any more than the rest of us do. Death is death. No one should have to live through death.”

  Sam glances down at her sandaled toes. Her feet are cold and dirty. She notices the black scab on her pinky toe where she stubbed it on the fishing dock three days ago. She should really wash it out, she thinks; it’s starting to look infected.

  “I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable, Sam. I just want you to understand. This is a life-and-death scenario. That’s why, as much as it kills me, I am going to have to let someone go.”

  Again, Sam nods, winding her fingers together at her waist.

  “I understand you’re good friends with both of the counselors involved in the accident.” Byron stoops to look her in the eyes. His face has fallen serious. Still, the laughing light is there, just a twinkle, a comedian stuck on the verge of the punchline. “I can’t ask Nick about this—it’s his brother, you know. And the other ADs don’t work as closely with either of them as you do. So, I’m just going to ask you: How can we handle this without impacting the rest of the staff too much?”

  When she doesn’t answer, he asks again. This time his words are pointed, direct.

  “I need your help. I want to handle this delicately. Who is going to leave a smaller void behind them?”

  Sam stands still under the moonlight and his smiling eyes for an oddly empty stretch of time. Her thoughts float away from her head, carrying her off across the lake and back to the facility, back down that hallway. This is not real. Finally, her mouth falls open and Phoebe’s name falls out of it.

  Byron straightens up, nodding. “Yeah, that’s about what I thought. It’s tough for a new hire to really get integrated, isn’t it?” He reaches out and squeezes Sam’s shoulder tight. “You do have a future here, I think. Not everyone can see those kinds of things. The big picture.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I don’t understand,” she says again, slowly, trying to sort out the muddled question in her head. She didn’t mean to speak up, but the words were somehow squeezed out by the hand on her shoulder. “If it’s that serious—if it’s life-and-death—why are we in charge of them? Why put Elias and Phoebe out there in the first place?”

  “Oh.” He chuckles. “The really big picture. That’s a little bigger than your pay grade, to be honest, Sam, but I’ll tell you again: it’s complicated. There’s a balance. Camp wouldn’t be the same without you kids.” His hand falls from her shoulder and he steps back, yawning. “You’ll learn more about all that next summer, I’m sure. For now, just stay on the trails, all right?”

  “All right.”

  “Good night, sweetheart. Thanks for your help.”

  When she gets back to the cabin, she finds the Hummingbirds still fluttering through their nighttime routine. Deb is singing in the bathroom, Lucy has toothpaste in her hair, and Daria is lying on the floor in her hiking boots and underpants. Katie, who was watching them through campfire, looks frazzled as she leaves.

  “All right, you monsters,” Sam rushes them. “Get to bed.”

  “Sam, tell us a Danny McGee!” Poppy begs. “Just one!”

  “Only if you get in bed now.”

  It started as a bedtime story a few days ago. Since then, it has evolved. Danny McGee is an ordinary, clumsy boy who attended Camp Phoenix in some forgotten year when things were still magical. His misadventures always end with him covered in poop or boogers or anything else embarrassing enough to leave the girls howling with laughter. Sam is proud of the stories. She even told a version at evening crafts and passed it on to Elias, who has given Danny his own theatrical spin.

  A tap on the front window makes Sam jump. She looks out to see Rosie, bundled in her beanie and windbreaker, shrugging at her watch. Go ahead, she mouths to her. She won’t meet them all at the Nest tonight.

  “Okay, okay.” Sam paces along the bunk beds, thinking. As the campers fall quiet in their sleeping bags, she closes her eyes. She can let herself get lost in the nonsense, the silly story. “Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, Danny McGee was a camper here at this Camp, just like all of you . . .”

  week four

  Sam

  The worst part about leading evening gold-panning is the inevitable attendance of at least one snarky, older camper who has only come to show off their skepticism to the littler ones. Today, it’s a Sparrow named Elaine. Sam eyes the girl as she turns the pyrite chunks over in her palm, preaching to a wide-eyed Wren. They stand shin-deep in the flowing water.

  “See?” Elaine says to the boy. “Real gold doesn’t crumble like that. If it was real, it would be impossible to break it.”

  Sam rolls her eyes. This is always a tricky line to walk. If she scolds her, it would only confirm her suspicions. On the other hand, if Elaine keeps talking, she is going to ruin the fantasy of the activity for the rest of the campers. Sam decides to feign ignorance. She sits on the needled creek bank, leaning back against a broad tree trunk, guarding the burrow in the ground where she hides the box of fake gold every morning. She lets her head fall back and gazes up to a reddening sky. Campers wade and splash in the water around her.

  It’s hot, even as the sun sinks low. They should have had a rainstorm by this point in the summer, but the skies are crystal clear and the air is dry. The last of the spring green in the forest is shriveling. Leaves crunch crisply underfoot, and dust hangs free in the air. Campers sport scabby red rings around their mouths from licking their chapped lips. Sam’s shoulders are perpetually sunburnt, and the freckles beneath her eyes are spreading and darkening like a rash.

  “Even if it was real, it wouldn’t be this easy to find. Gold doesn’t just float around in rivers anymore. Haven’t you ever heard of the Gold Rush?”

  “Elaine,” Sam groans, “that’s enough.” For a fraction of a second, she wonders who this girl is in her other life, in the real world. A lawyer or political analyst, perhaps a social media profit.

  “It’s fake, isn’t it, Sam? It’s just pyrite, isn’t it?”

  “It’s gold,” Sam says, shifting her leg to cover the stone that hides the pyrite stash.

  When the bell chimes from the center of Camp, the little prospectors pocket their finds, uncuff the sopping hems of their pants, and struggle back into their socks and shoes. Sam leads them along the trail, onto the lawn, and down toward campfire, where they dash off to join their cabins.

  The Hummingbirds have their first campfire skits tonight. Poppy is the star, of course. She prances across the creaking stage, swimming in a long prop gown, crying: “Where, oh where, are my royal papers? Fetch me my royal papers!” The rest of the girls come on in various costumes, giggling, presenting newspapers and magazines and maps. The queen rejects each of them with increasing fury. Daria appears last, slumped in a hunchback’s gait, wielding a roll of toilet paper. “At last!” Poppy tosses her arms upward. “My royal papers!”

  For their second act they sing an old, well-worn campfire song.

  Late last night, while we were all in bed,

  Old Lady Leary left the lantern in the shed . . .

  Sam crouches on stage with the girls, prodding them to sing louder. The fire crackles in its metal ring, and the voices rise in unharmonious unison.

  . . . and when the cow kicked it over, she winked her eye and said,

  IT’S GONNA BE A HOT TIME, IN THE OLD TOWN, TONIGHT!

  FIRE, FIRE, FIRE!

  WATER, WATER, WATER!

  JUMP, LADY, JUMP!

  AAAAH, SPLAT!

  The song ends with a solid, ringing clap—the sound of a body smacking the ground. The whole scene is gruesome, cultish; the flames, the stars, the singsong nonsense wailed into the night.

  Camp Phoenix has quickly become a universe of its own. By the design of the program, they are completely cut off from the rest of the world—there is no year, no time, no media. No parents or school. They have each other, and their own patched-together culture, their matching wardrobes and friendship bracelets, ghost stories and legends and silly songs. Entire sentences can be strung together with words nobody outside the lake basin would ever understand.

  The counselors are just as affected by the isolation as the clients of Camp Phoenix. As two weeks fade into three, they are all rapidly losing touch with the things that used to matter to them. Sam tries to think back to her life in Paris and finds herself coming up with a flat caricature. Lifeless images, like postcard pictures, of the landscape, her apartment, the high ceilings of the classroom where she studied French philosophy, rattle across a drained skull.

  She believes she used to speak with sophistication and culture. Now she says: “If Germ thinks he’s leaving me to shovel the goat shit in afternoon period again, he can suck my ass.”

  She has a lit cigarette balanced between her fingers, perched on the tailgate of somebody’s truck. It’s just past midnight; tonight, they drove down the road from Camp to build a bonfire at Lobster Point, the gravelly campsite near the dam.

  “You’re at the barn again tomorrow?” Rosie asks her. “I thought we were lifeguarding together.”

  “Yeah, I don’t know. Guess Nick moved me.”

  They both look across the flickering fire, where the Borowitz brothers sit on rotting stumps, strumming their guitars. Elias has a disarmingly lovely, folksy singing voice. They bumble the chords and laugh at each other and play on. The rest of the staff sits watching them, drunk and entranced. Over the firelit branches, the stars are bright and infinite.