She was going to kill Diane and Todd. Those idiots were going to ruin it for everyone.
Little Claire was the first one into the bathroom. She may have been a midnight pee-er, but she was mercifully quick in the shower. （There was no way she washed. She just turned the water on and off. Brandy knew this but did not actually care. Little kids were filthy. You accepted it and you moved on.） She ran out merrily in her little terry-cloth robe. In daylight, Claire was all butterflies and rainbows. She sang to herself and spun and skipped toward the edge of the woods. She reappeared seconds later and hurried back to Brandy.
“Someone’s asleep on the path,” she said.
This was all Brandy needed—one of her friends passed out in the dirt.
“They’re all sticky,” Claire added.
Great. Super great. Working alone? Check. Cleaning vomit off a passed-out person before even waking up completely? Perfect.
“Where?” Bridget asked, whipping around toward Claire.
Claire pointed toward the path. Bridget tore off in that direction, her whole demeanor screaming “J’accuse!” Brandy trailed behind her. This morning was the worst.
Beyond the cabins and the bathrooms, there was a parting of the woods and a slender dirt path that snaked back toward the archery grounds and the structure that was generously referred to as the “open-air theater.” A few yards up
the path, there was a figure, fast asleep, facedown in the dirt.
“That’s not Diane,” Bridget said, her voice dripping with disappointment.
Bridget was right. The figure on the ground wasn’t Diane. It was a guy, a guy with a head of blond curly hair. That and the red jersey T-shirt told Brandy it was Eric Wilde.
“What’s wrong with him?” Bridget asked.
“Go brush your teeth, Bridget,” Brandy said.
“I want to see.”
“Bridget.”
Bridget narrowed her eyes but backed up as directed.
Brandy continued down the dirt path. She could see now why Claire had said he was sticky—there was something darkening the dirt all around him, some explosion of bodily emissions. This was going to be a bad one. That it was Eric was at least less trouble. She would be obligated to cover for Diane, help her shower. That was what bunkmates did. With Eric, though, the obligations were less arduous. Just shake him awake and get him moving. Not her problem after that.
“Eric, you moron,” she called, stumbling down the dirt track in her bare feet. “What the hell?”
Eric didn’t stir.
Now that she was closer, Brandy could tell something was off about his position—he’d fallen facedown, his arms and legs extended like he was in Superman position. Such a weird way to fall. His vomit—or whatever it was—dribbled all down the path to where he had landed and pooled out
around him. The underside of his skin was faintly purple, and there was something wrong with his hair. It was darker than it should have been.
“Wake up,” Brandy said, coming up to the unconscious figure and kneeling down. “Eric, come on. . . .”
His stillness was unnatural. He made no sound. There was only the soft birdsong and the sound of the trees and the chatter of the camp as it woke.
“Eric?” she said.
She rolled him over.
Someone was screaming. It took her a moment to realize it was her.
2
THE NEXT MORNING, STEVIE PLANTED HERSELF AT THE KITCHEN TABLE with a bowl of cereal and an Ellingham library book that she had been permitted to take home for the summer. This was one of the many perks of Ellingham, and of being on good terms with Kyoko, the school librarian, who had specially ordered it for her.