Camp Damascus(11)

“Whoa,” I gush aloud, my eyes dancing across the tiny screen as I scroll onward.

The next search result is a local story about a man who claims he discovered a new species of leech in the deep Neverton County woods. A photo is included, showing a clearly fabricated invertebrate that is nothing more than a pale sagging balloon wrapped around someone’s deflated football. Stringy hair has been pasted along the ridge of the mysterious creature’s “back.”

I remember when this story came out and a wave of sadness washes over me. The hoaxer was a deeply disturbed man, a lost soul who would eventually take his own life.

He was a nonbeliever.

My phone buzzes, a notification appearing at the top of the flat rectangular screen.

“Martina Coachman has tagged you in five photos,” I recite under my breath, reading the words out loud against my own volition.

I click the notification, my hush-hush and wholly top-secret social media app filling the screen as it displays an assortment of pictures from today. I don’t remember posing for any photos, and as I scroll through these uploads I find my recollection to be correct.

However, I did end up in the background of several shots, and Martina was kind enough to tag me.

I take a moment to swipe through today’s images, glowing with appreciation at my inclusion in this gallery that feels both familiar and deeply foreign. Many of these people are my friends, but a few nonbelievers have wormed their way into the mix.

I see kids making hand signs that I don’t understand or recognize. There are swimsuits covering way too little, and T-shirts with logos that seem nothing short of occult.

Fortunately, there’s just as many shirts featuring Bible verses to balance things out. I smile when I see one that reads, I GET HIGH ON THE MOST HIGH, which is about as lurid as I’m willing to get. Even then, I feel guilty about my reaction.

In one photo Isaiah flexes for the camera, a display that makes me wrinkle my nose and unconsciously frown. In another, one of the guys has pulled the bottom of his shirt into his own collar to create the approximation of a bra. I’m in the background of that one, standing by myself and struggling to act natural.

The next photo features Martina flanked by two girls I only vaguely know, the three of them doing some kind of secret-agent finger-gun pose I’ve seen before but can’t seem to place.

I can’t help making note of how pretty Martina is, a strange feeling bubbling up inside me as I observe these digital representations of her smiling face. The emotion coursing through my veins is uncomfortable, an ache that burns and sizzles awkwardly.

It feels a little like jealousy, but not entirely.

I dive even deeper into my friend’s archive, my fingers gaining a mind of their own as I swipe from one image to the next. I’m no longer just perusing snapshots from today, but bounding back in time to various activities, outfits, and hairstyles.

I stop at a photo of a strangely innocuous moment, a portrait Martina appears barely ready for. She’s standing on her couch midlaugh, casually clad in a blazer and a white button-up shirt that’s way too big for her.

I’ve never noticed just how many freckles Martina has dancing across her skin, even today at the swimming hole.

So jealous.

Martina’s strawberry hair is up in a messy bun, renegade strands falling around her shoulders in a way that somehow appears both completely random and perfectly planned. One eyebrow is cocked high above the other in a silly face—a face that would probably be deeply unflattering on anyone else—but for some reason her expression slips right between my ribs like a perfectly placed spear to the heart.

My body flushes with heat as I shift my weight in bed, turning from side to side. My skin is tingling.

Suddenly, however, the rising temperature comes to an abrupt halt. A wave of cold washes over me, chilling me to the bone.

My breath catches in my throat, and I’m unsure of how I should respond to this bizarre thermal shift. I look to the bedroom window, wondering if I’d accidently left it open and allowed the cool of the evening to slip inside.

I didn’t.

What I do notice, however, is the slightest bit of movement from the corner of my eye.

It’s so fast I barely have time to react, and even when I turn my head fully there’s nothing there. It feels as though I’m witnessing some residual presence, the ethereal ghost of someone who stood in my doorway just moments earlier.

I gaze into the darkened hallway, struggling to perceive anything as my eyes adjust from their warm visions of Martina’s freckly grin on the brilliant phone screen.

“Dad?” I call out with quiet apprehension, my voice soft as it floats through the darkness.

No response.

I lock the phone screen and place it flat against my chest, waiting for my pupils to dilate and listening intently for any sign from the shadows. It takes a beat for me to realize just how tightly clenched my muscles have become, and I consciously relax. I focus on my breathing, appreciating the steady in and out as my chest moves up and down against the blankets.

On one hand I begin to drum out my finger patterns, counting down in specific arrangements. I’ve done this since I was a child, sometimes when I’m bored, but mostly as a way to soothe my body in times of high tension.

Suddenly, a spasm in my throat. I cough and sputter as the steady flow of air is broken, this brief moment of chaos escalating to a final heave that ejects a tiny, fluttering insect from my mouth.