“This is a really great breakfast,” Summer said, taking two spoonfuls of egg.

  “Yeah,” Sara said. “It’s not always like this.” There was something in her voice that made Summer look up.

  “What do you mean?”

  Sara, clearly realizing she’d said something wrong, turned a shade of red like the tray of tomatoes as she plucked a piece of ham out of the serving tray and dropped it on her plate. Summer didn’t want to blow it. She had a few seconds to salvage the situation, so she said, “Hey, want to eat together?”

  Sara froze, her plate between her hands, and then, decidedly, she nodded.

  “We sit there,” she said, pointing with the serving spoon toward the far wall. Summer could see Sara’s mother and father sitting together with their coffee. They were watching.

  “Okay,” Summer said. “Can my mom come?”

  Sara shrugged, and Summer went off to find her mother, feeling happy.

  She didn’t find her, however, and after five minutes of circling the cafeteria with her plate, Sara came to collect her and lead her back to the table where her parents were still drinking their coffee. Sara’s mother and father seemed glad to have her and asked her questions about where she’d lived before and what her dad had been like. Summer answered as politely as she could while she kept her eye on the door. Her mother had said she’d meet her for breakfast so that Summer could tell her about her first night at Kids’ Camp.

  “Summer...” It was Sara’s mother, Ama. “She probably got caught up. She was meant to start her new job today.”

  “Oh,” Summer said stupidly. She hadn’t known. She knew that everyone here had to work, on the compound or off, that they had to contribute. She remembered asking her mother what she was going to contribute. Had she answered? Summer couldn’t remember.

  “Where does she work?” she asked Sara’s mother. Her voice was meek and confused, and the woman, sensing her distress, put an arm around Summer’s shoulders and squeezed gently. It was a mom thing to do, and Summer began to cry.

  “Well, look there, sweetie, I see her now.”

  Summer’s head snapped up, and lo and behold, her mother stood in the doorway of the cafeteria, eyes searching for her daughter. Summer didn’t say goodbye to Sara’s family; she launched herself from her seat and across the room, dodging bodies and plates until she was face-to-face with her person.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Mama said. She didn’t hug Summer like she normally would have, just stood with her arms at her sides.

  “I was worried,” Summer shot back accusingly.

  “I have a job,” her mother said simply. “I’m really tired. Come with me while I get some coffee.”

  She followed after her, tripping once on her heels. When they found a spot at the end of an overcrowded table, her mother slouched over her mug and looked at Summer with droopy eyes.

  “Did you have a nice time?” she asked. Summer launched into the stories without being pushed, ending it with eating breakfast with Sara’s family.

  “Her dad is the doctor?” her mother asked.

  Summer nodded.

  “What was he like?”

  “I don’t know. Sara’s mom talked more than he did. They just asked me stuff.”

  “Like what stuff?”

  Her mother was sitting up straighter now, more alert.

  “I don’t remember,” she lied. “I have to go to class now.” She started to stand up, but her mother grabbed her hand.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, and she looked it. “I’m just tired.” Seeming to force a smile, her mama squeezed her hand once more before letting go.

  “Okay, kid. I’ll see you tonight for dinner.”

  Summer raised a hand and ran after Sara, who was waiting near the door for her: the school bell had rung.

  8

  Then

  It was February of 1999; Kids’ Camp was double the size it had been the previous year. Summer turned fourteen quietly that month. Her mother was away, and if anyone knew it was Summer’s birthday, they didn’t say. Most days consisted of a steady stream of chores, schoolwork, journaling and leadership training, and by the time she climbed into her bunk at night, she couldn’t say what day of the week it was. They woke early—four a.m. early—to run two miles before their day started. Fitness and discipline were important, Taured told them. To learn bodily discipline, they would watch what they ate, report on their exercise and calorie intake each day and sleep exactly six hours each night. If they didn’t meet their assigned weight goal each week, they lost an hour of sleep. And if they weren’t sleeping, they had to be working.

  In March, Monica Lewinsky was interviewed by Barbara Walters about her affair with the president. Taured wheeled the big TV into the cafeteria so everyone could watch. Plates of cookies were passed around, the chocolate warm in their mouths as Miss Lewinsky explained why she hadn’t dry-cleaned her dress. It felt like they’d barely dusted the cookie crumbs off their laps when the TV appeared again in April, with bowls of rice pudding: this time, Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold had murdered twelve students and one teacher in the Columbine massacre. Summer couldn’t eat the pudding; sprinkled with cinnamon, it looked like freckled skin. She watched as hundreds of students ran for their lives across the grass, arms behind their heads lest they be mistaken for a shooter, and wondered what she’d do in that situation. The building Harris and Klebold had terrorized looked similar to the compound, filled with windowless hallways and limited exits.

  In May, a tornado ripped through Moore, Oklahoma, and for forty-five minutes, its winds fluctuated around 301 mph, devastating everything in its thirty-eight-mile path; it killed thirty-six people and injured five hundred more. Taured ushered them into the cafeteria for this, too, and they ate a dinner of sweet potato, watching survivors being pulled from the rubble. Why were these things happening? Both in nature and to the nature of people? America, Taured told them, had become godless, and as a result, the country as a whole was under a spiritual attack. They’d had a hard year money-wise, eating their crops instead of selling them. Even so, Taured sent missionaries out that summer, her mother one of them, and they came back with a widower named Jon Wycliffe and his teenage daughter, Feena. After that, they ate okay again, and they got a couple new TVs for the main building.

  The first time Summer saw Feena she was in the cafeteria, standing near the soda fountain, her hands clasped politely at the waistband of her jeans. She was elfin and pretty-faced, with spiral-curled red hair and creamy yogurt skin that the Nevada sky would eat up. Below her neck, she was all woman. None of the other girls had rounded breasts or hips that curved like an S, and because of that, every single one of them was looking at her. She was standing with her father and Taured, and despite that she was the news of the evening, her eyes were watching their exuberant leader, and only him.

  Taured wasn’t like the other adults; Summer and Sara agreed on this. He spoke to them with the same respect he used with their parents. There was no difference between young and old, male or female; if anything, he was nicer to women than he was to men. She noticed that they all looked at him in the same hungry way—not just the older girls, but all of them: the men, the women and the children. But who was Taured looking at?

  At the moment, he was looking at Feena, and the feelings Summer experienced could only be explained by one very basic word: envy. Her eyes dragged between them as they spoke: Feena polite and nervous, Taured interested. Jon was smiling between them, a content chaperon. The smell of frying onions reached her nose, and remembering that she was here to meet her mother, she dragged her eyes away from the group and began to look for her.

  After Summer moved to Kids’ Camp her mother had worked different jobs around the compound for months before Taured began sending her on the four-to-eight-week trips. The missionaries stayed in motels, her mother told her, some really gross, but recently Taured had bought an RV, and they were going to use that instead. When she asked Lorraine if she liked going on the mission trips, she said yes, and then pressed her lips together so tight they’d turned white. They saw each other less and less, it seemed, but Summer was so busy she hardly had time to recognize it. She spotted Lorraine at a table, her tray already in front of her, and made her way over, still thinking of the way Taured was looking at Feena.

  “Aren’t you going to eat?” Lorraine asked when Summer sat down without a tray. Summer studied her mother’s face for a moment, trying to understand what had changed, and then saw the tiny gold studs in her ears.

  “You got your ears pierced?” Her tone was accusatory, she realized, but the women here were restricted from tattoos and piercings, especially a woman such as her mother, who was sent on mission trips.

  Her mother shrugged, leaning her chin on her fist, and looked down at her soup and bread indifferently.

  “Here,” she said, pushing the plate toward Summer. “Have mine.”

  “I’m fasting,” Summer said quickly. She hid her hands under the table as to not be tempted by the food. She was trying not to look at it. When had she eaten last? It doesn’t matter, she thought. The longer you go, the more blessed you’ll be. Taured had said so himself.

  “Why are you fasting? Did he make you fast?”

  Summer drew back like she’d been slapped; she hated when her mother got like this.

  “Why did you get your ears pierced?” she tried. If they were going to be asking questions, she had a few of her own.

  Lorraine, who seemed to realize the trade of information her daughter was asking for, leaned back in her seat with a sigh. They were in the back corner of the room near the AC vents. No one liked to sit there because of the noise, but Summer suddenly realized her mother might have chosen the table for a reason. The area was often used for dry storage, the table stacked with overflow boxes of instant mashed potatoes and macaroni when the storage room was full. Today, it was empty.

  “I guess I thought, why not? I’ve always wanted to.” Her mother tilted her head to the side, making her little earrings flash attractively. Summer felt disgust as thick as vomit fill her esophagus.

  “But it’s against the rules.”

  “Not mine.”

  The soup sat between them, no longer steaming, as Summer considered what to say next. She wanted to know when she’d had it done, and who had gone with her, and what she’d been thinking at the time. Instead, she settled on a more direct question: “Has Taured seen?”

  That drew a reaction. Her mother’s expression seemed to curdle, her eyes growing dull and her lips shriveling up like dried fruit.

  “Why are you acting like this?” Summer lowered her voice, though she didn’t need to; the air conditioner was groaning loudly. “When you brought me here, you told me that these people...these people were here to help us. Now you’re acting...ungrateful. Like you don’t want to be here.”

  Something passed over her mother’s face—she couldn’t tell what. Then, all of a sudden, the look disappeared from her face and she leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms.

  “Ungrateful.” She said the word as if she were tasting it. “Taured should be grateful to me. Can’t you see the new meat I bring him?”

  Her mother was purposefully staring over Summer’s shoulder. She turned around in her seat to see Taured, now sitting at a table with Feena and Jon.

  “‘New meat’? That’s terrible. What’s wrong with you?” Summer was appalled. She shook her head, a sneer pulling the corners of her mouth. For months, her mother had been changing, looking different with each appearance she made at the compound. She journaled her thoughts about it to Taured and then sent them to him through the computer like a prayer. He never responded, but she knew he was reading. Now, she wished she’d asked him for advice on how to handle a situation like this. She sat up ramrod straight and practiced her leadership abilities. She doubted it would work on her mother, but it was worth a try.

  “The work that you do is important. You gather lost souls and bring them to help.”

  Her mother laughed. The sight of her with her eyes closed, white teeth exposed, was beautiful. The sound that her laughter made was not. Feeling cynical and raw, Summer flinched away from it. No one looked, thankfully. Everyone was too busy being nosy about the new people.

  “I don’t bring them to help, Summer,” she said. “I bring them to hell. He’s brainwashed you—they’re all brainwashed.”

  “Mama—”

  “Yeah, I am your mother, Summer, I am. And I made a grave mistake bringing you here. I need you to listen to me, and listen carefully, okay?” Lorraine reached for her daughter, but Summer’s hands were under the table in her lap. She would have yanked her hands away, anyway, if her mama had dared touch her.

  “No,” Summer said very softly. “No, I don’t want to. You’re embarrassing me. You’re acting crazy. And if you say things like this again, I’m going to tell Taured.”

  The look on Lorraine’s face made Summer’s stomach ache. She’d only ever seen her mother make that face once before: on the day her dad died. She stood up from the table suddenly, not caring if she drew the attention of everyone in the cafeteria. She wanted to get away. Turning, she heard her mother hiss her name, then call it loudly as she charged past the soup bar, and then the soda fountain. She would have to walk past the table where Taured was eating dinner with Feena if she wanted to go back to Kids’ Camp. Taured paused in his conversation with Feena and Jon to look at her, and instead of walking past them, she veered left out the double doors that led into the main side of the compound. She needed to think. Her heart was hammering around so hard it hurt.

  What had happened to her mother out there? If Taured found out what Lorraine was really thinking, would he ask them to leave? The thought sent panic, pure as pain, through her insides. Then she felt angry. Her mother couldn’t do that, ruin their lives here like she had with their last apartment, forcing them to leave their home in the middle of the night. Summer had left her things behind, things her dad had given her, written to her. People in the compound were headed to dinner, and she seemed to be the only fish pushing upstream. People said her name, but Summer acted like she didn’t hear them. She was almost to the chapel now, and the chapel led to the doors out front. Light-headed, she reached the corridor where the chapel stood, its doors propped open for anyone who needed a safe space to pray and think.

  Summer stepped inside and smelled new paint and fresh carpet. Taured had had the whole thing redone last month. She’d been in there a couple times since, but never alone. The newly installed pews were modern and made the space look less threatening than before, when it was covered in dark wood. Through the chapel and to the back, where the Bibles were kept on a wheelie rack, was an alcove used for storage, and through that was a door that had been kept locked while the compound was a prison. Guards had used the hallway, which circled the perimeter of the building like a vein. There were access points to this vein through the chapel, the infirmary and Taured’s office. Sara had shown her where each one was. She’d been at the compound since the beginning—her family was the first to leave their former lives and join Taured here—and she told people that with pride. Summer knew where the key was stashed. To the left of the door was a framed picture of a Bible verse: plucking it from its hook, she turned it over, and wedged behind the frame backing and the frame itself was a key. She needed the key to get back in, so she pocketed it and slipped through into the dark hallway.

  It smelled funny back there, like wet concrete and something sweetly rancid. The light bulbs hadn’t been replaced in years and the only light came in from the tiny rectangular windows near the ceiling. Summer walked a ways until she reached another door marked with an exit sign. This lock took the same key. It slid in and she shoved the door open, letting the fresh air pool in her lungs. There was a narrow sidewalk, and beyond that, the ground dropped off at a sharp, odd angle, a mini–Grand Canyon. On the other side of the mini-canyon was a fence and, beyond that, the desert. Summer followed the sidewalk around the building to the old prison entrance. From there she could see the guard shack perched on top of the hill. Not wanting to be seen—Marta, whom she’d called Noodles on that first afternoon, still manned the booth most days—she walked toward the carport where Taured had greeted them on their first day here.

  Her mother’s words—“new meat”—were still echoing in her head. What had she meant by that? It had sounded so ugly. And if her mother was opposed to bringing back new members, why was she going on those mission trips, anyway? But Summer already knew the answer to that: the mission trips had been chosen for her mother. People were assigned to jobs based on their strengths, and it was their duty to serve the community with those strengths. Summer served here, leading the younger girls by example. And what type of example are you setting now? she thought, keeping her eyes trained on the guard shack. The carport looked different than the last time she was there: there were three SUVs this time, a shiny new RV—an Airbus—with a lightning bolt painted on the side and parked horizontally, taking up six spots, and a black convertible BMW that looked brand-spanking-new, as her daddy used to say. She walked alongside the RV, and when she got to the driver’s-side door, she tried the handle. It was open.

  Climbing into the driver’s seat, Summer closed the door gently behind her and looked around. Everything smelled new. She leaned around the front seat to see into the back. The gut of the RV had a living room preceded by a small kitchen. To the rear of that were two closed doors that must be the bedroom and bathroom. There was no indication it had been lived in. Reaching across the passenger seat, she opened the glove box. When she was little her dad had kept Tootsie Rolls in the glove box. She pressed the button that sprang the little door open and found a pile of notebooks stacked inside. Summer's forehead creased together as she reached inside to retrieve one. Opening it, she saw with surprise that it wasn’t a notebook at all, and she was staring at a photo of her mother, but the name beside it didn’t match. Staci Cartright, it said. Born August 3. That was not her mother’s name or birthday, and yet the passport she was holding said it was. Shaking her head, Summer reached for another. They were all photos of her mother, matched with strange names. She put them all back as she’d found them and moved this time to the stack of driver’s licenses, bound by a rubber band. Summer found her mother’s real driver’s license. She squinted at the address: Forsythia Drive. It was the old one, the apartment they’d left in the middle of the night. According to the front of the card, it was expired. Among the other cards, she found another face that actually matched the name: it was Feena’s father, Jon Wycliffe, his thinning hair limp across his forehead, his eyes two dead brown puddles. They were from a place called Rolla, Missouri. She stared at his photo long and hard, wondering if Feena got her looks from her mother.