This camp is so fucking stupid. I can't even storm off in a proper rage without some counselor breathing down my neck in the process; can't even vent my feelings for a second without being collected by some blonde-haired counselor bitch named Karen. She doesn't even try to chase after me or grab me by the arm or anything, just plants her feet in the dirt and hollers, "Fisher!"

My last name. It catches me by surprise. I stop.

I didn't make it far after escaping the Sharing Circle— I didn't know where I wanted to go, I just knew that I needed to run. I watch as Karen marches across the field to where I'm standing. I could easily bolt, but I want to hear what she has to say first.

"So, you're the one with the attitude," Karen says, phrasing this like a question but not really saying it like one.

"You tell me. You already know my name."

"I know a lot about you, Fisher. It's kind of my job to know things around here."

I glare up at her. Karen isn't the kind of person that immediately commands your attention— she's a little too short for that, and her blonde lob makes her look like a soccer mom— but she's good at looking stern, and not in that lame way that adults always try to look stern when they want you to feel like you're in trouble.

My respect towards the counselor grows, but my distrust remains the same. I don't trust adults. Never have. "You don't know anything about me," I tell her. "Just leave me the hell alone."

If I were at school, this would be enough to shock any teacher into submission, but Karen doesn't give so easily. She just rolls her eyes at me and shakes her head, as if she's dealing with nothing more than an unreasonable child.

"Look, I get it— Sharing Circles drive people crazy. You have to talk about shit you don't want to talk about in front of a random strangers who are only going to judge you for it. Sharing Circle sucks. I know that it does. But if you don't show up at the Director's cabin in the next five minutes there will be hell to pay, so why don't you stop making things harder than they need to be and come with me."

Not a question. An order. And because I don't feel like paying any hell, at least not just yet, I decide to do what I'm told.

"Fine," I say.

She nods. "You're making the mature choice here."

Ha. As if I have a choice.

Karen escorts me to the big log house in the middle of camp. I already knew that it was the Director's (I know things too, Karen) but even if I didn't, the sense of propriety that the building exudes would make it clear who it belongs to. People leave behind imprints of their energy when they stay in a place long enough, and I could feel the the Director's from a mile away.

I'm not complimenting the Director, in case you were wondering. She might have a big cabin and an intense personality but that doesn't make her a good person. I don't trust her, the same way I don't trust Karen, or any other counselor at this camp.

Karen hangs back when we reach the door. "This is where I leave you," she says. "Sibyl will be waiting for you inside."

Hearing the Director's first name— Sibyl— is so weird and jarring that I don't question what Karen told me or why I'm being forced to speak with the Director in the first place. I just push the door open and step inside.

The Director's cabin is dark and smells like pine and smoke. In the center of one of the walls is a large fireplace, crackling with flames and puffing glowing embers up in the chimney. I stare into the fire for a few seconds before moving in the middle the room.

The interior theme of the cabin overwhelmingly outdoorsy, like it was designed by a hunter or a very militant Park Ranger. Most of the light has been blocked out by thick flannel curtains, giving the room a stifling, cave-like feel. To make things even eerier, there's a stuffed deer's head hanging above the mantelpiece, its marble eyes black and judging. I can almost feel the deer watching as I walk through the room.

One of the cabin walls is completely taken over by a large, intricate map of Alaska, with red pins jutting out of it at random places. Another wall is shielded by dusty bookshelves and a filing cabinet with locks on the drawers. At the back of the room, there's a shut door that I imagine leads to the Director's private living quarters. It's strange to think about the Director needing to sleep and shower, but I guess that even she is human like the rest of us. Still, I wouldn't be surprised if I found out that she uses the room for wacky shit, like dark occult magic or illegal poker rings.

The majority of the cabin was taken up by a large oak desk that looks like it was carved straight out of the tree, maybe by the Director herself. The desk looks stately and official, carrying the weight of the Director's job on top of it; a chunky white computer, stacks of important papers, a cup for pens and pencils and a slap of yellow Sticky Notes, as well as all the other things that the Director needs to keep the camp running. Its presence swallows up all the air in the room like a black-hole. Still, it's not as intimidating as the woman sitting behind it.

The Director sits on a black spinning chair that seems at odds with its more surroundings, both legs planted steadily on the floor. (I don't the Director is ever not in a power position.) Even though the room is dimly lit she's still wearing her sunglasses. She glances up at me through the reflective silver lenses as I approach.

Director herself, sitting with both legs planted steadily on the floor on a black spinning chair that seemed at odds with its more rugged surroundings. She tilted her prominent chin back to look up at me when I entered.

There's something about the Director's gaze that made me question myself, if only for a moment. I didn't like her when she gave her speech at Initiation. And I like her even less now.

"Hello, Becca," The Director says. "Have a seat."

She points to a folding chair propped up against the wall. I place the chair a safe distance away from her desk and sit down.

"I hope that you know why you're here," the Director says.

A low, menacing growl rises from her feet. When I look down, I almost lose my shit— there's a huge black dog lying underneath her desk, the type of scraggly mutt that could be any and every breed. It's easily sixty pounds of sheer muscle, and it has a thick fur coat perfectly suited for the long Alaskan winters. Its ears are perked up and its teeth are bared.

And it's staring right fucking at me.

"I apologize, I don't think I introduced you two." A slight smile creeps across the Director's face. It's as comforting as the dog's deep growls. "This is Hecate. She's been my good friend for the past four years. Hecate, please be polite to our guest."

Hecate juts her nose in the air, sniffing me out. Her ears twitch slightly and she growls again.

I lean back in my chair. "I don't like dogs."

"Hecate is very well-behaved. She won't bite."

The black dog looked at me, its eyes narrowed almost as if to say, I wouldn't be so sure about that.

My hands tighten into fists. This is why I don't like dogs. Because they're stubborn bastards, and their owners are all liars.

"Hecate, quiet down." The Director fishes a treat out of her pocket and hands it to the dog. It lunges forward, teeth gnashing, but the Director manages to pull her fingers back just in time to keep them from getting snapped off. She places her hands back on the desk. She doesn't even look fazed by the dog's monstrous behavior— like owner, like pet, I suppose.

"I'd like to talk about your experience at the Sharing Circle," the Director says. "Owen told me that you left the Sharing Circle before it ended."

"He's not wrong."

"He also said that you kicked over a chair before you left."

I shift in my seat. "That was just an overreaction. I was angry."

"Why?"

"He kept pushing me to talk about a topic I wasn't comfortable talking about," I say. I might be side-stepping the truth, but I'm definitely not lying— I hate talking about my parents. Kicking over a chair is probably one of my more calmer reactions to being forced to talk about them.

"And what was the topic?"

I dig my fingernails into the pad of my palm. "My parents," I grit out.

"Your parents, as I understand, are Catholic missionaries."

Pain shoots through my hand. Breathe in. Breathe out. Don't think about them. "Yes."

"And this makes you uncomfortable?"

I don't respond to this. I just press my fingernails down even deeper; through skin, through muscle, through bone. Don't think about them. Don't think about them. Don't think—

Hecate lets out a low, rumbling growl. I flinch away, fear spiking through my heart like a hot poker. I hate dogs. I hate this camp. I hate—

"This is a camp of healing, Becca. Healing does not occur without talking. The two processes go hand in hand."

"I know that."

"Do you?"

I hold her gaze even though it hurts, in my hands as well as my head. "Yes."

"Well then, I'm sure you'll have no trouble at all at your next Sharing Circle."

"We have to go to another one?"

"At Lightlake, we believe that communication is essential in the journey of self-reflection and recovery. We encourage our campers to speak about their troubles as much as possible. Therefor, campers are required attend one to two Sharing Circles every week."

"Maybe I don't want to speak about my troubles."

"Most campers don't, at first. I have a feeling that you'll change your mind about that in the future."

"I have a feeling that I won't."

"If that is the case, I don't think this summer is going to be very pleasant or easy for you. In the end, the only person who can heal you is you."

"Why do I need to be healed? There's nothing wrong with me. I didn't even need to come to this camp. The police just said it was for my own protection, after everything that happened with—" I cut myself off short. "I don't need to be healed. That's all."

"Nobody is forced to come to Lightlake. It is always a choice."

"Is it?" I retort.

The Director angles her long chin sideways, like she's thinking. "What is your opinion of Lightlake, Becca?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"I'm just curious."

"Okay. In all honesty, I think this camp is pointless. No teenager wants to be told they need healing. No teenager wants adults they don't know interrogating them about their friends, their family, their parents. I think that you're doing more harm than good here. In my opinion, Lightlake isn't going to heal anybody."

The Director nods at me slowly. "I understand where you're coming from, Becca, but I don't agree with you. If Lightlake's methods seem clumsy to you, it's only because you're not opening yourself up to them. To a closed mind, I'm sure that we all do seem like nosy adults preforming interrogations. But I assure you that's not the way it is. We really do want to help you, we want to help you all. But we can't do that if you're coming here with spite, and not a desire to change for the better."

"That's bullshit."

"Why so?"

"Maybe I don't want to be healed, maybe I don't want to change— but that doesn't make me spiteful. I'm not spiteful. I'm just me."

"Everybody has the ability to change, Becca."

"That's not true."

The Director unfolds her hands. She leans forwards and asks, "When you say that, do you have a specific person in mind?"

Yes. "No."

"I think that you do."

"I don't."

"Are you thinking of your parents?"

"No." Not only them.

"You won't make any progress by lying, Becca."

"I don't want to make progress. I don't even want to be at this camp. The only reason why I came here is because I had nowhere better to go. I wish I was still in Arizona. I wish I'd never fucking come here at all!"

My words vibrate in the air like flies stuck in a glue trap. I didn't mean to lash out— I never do— but the words were eating away at my throat like battery acid. I had to get them out.

Is that how they get you to talk around here? By making you so furious that you have no choice but to spit out everything that's been building up inside of you? I thought that I had escaped Sharing Circle when I kicked over the chair and ran, but I only landed myself in an even worse interrogation session with the Director. I hate how she made me talk to her.

"That's a mark for swearing," the Director says coldly.

As if I give one shit about marks. I'm still staring hard at the ground when I force out, "Are we done here?" Each syllable is disjointed, dissonant. "I want to leave."

"Unless you have any other questions for me, we are done for today." The Director drags a hand through her thick, black hair, her fingers trailing through the highlights in a bored, careless fashion. Her face is completely unreadable. "Please try to control your language more in the future."

I rise to my feet. "See you later, probably," I mutter, moving sluggishly towards the door.

And then a vision hits me like whiplash. This time, I see Hecate moving towards me, her black gummy lips pulled back in a snarl, white teeth flashing at my neck— and in that moment, I don't think, I just react. My instincts kick in and I leap backwards, not even considering or caring what the Director might think. My foot knocks against one of the bookshelves as I move, jostling a few volumes to the ground with a loud thud.

Hecate springs to her feet a second before the books make impact, pushing towards me while I'm still lurching backwards. She bares her teeth at me and barks so loudly that I can hear my ears ringing. My vision came true. Just like they always do.

I'm about to shout at the Director for letting her dog lash out at me like that when something glittering catches my eye. I force myself to look down at Hecate That's when I see the metal around her neck— a chain. The stupid dog was chained to the Director's desk this entire time, and I didn't even realize!

My breath catches in my throat. Oh, shit, this is bad. I moved before the dog did. I moved before the dog did. And the Director isn't stupid— I might as well have just given myself away. There was no way I could have known that the dog was going to lunge— not unless I could see her move before she actually did. Oh shit. Oh shit. I've never been this careless before. But the dog caught me off-guard....

Slowly, I lean down and place the books back on the shelf. "Sorry," I mumble. My heart races wildly in my chest. "I'm such a klutz."

The Director doesn't smile at me. She doesn't nod, doesn't acknowledge my words or actions at all. Her face is still a mask of blank, apathetic flesh. And behind those silver glasses— nothing.

Maybe she knows. Maybe she doesn't. Could this have been a test? Some kind of twisted experiment, designed to force my hand? But that's impossible— what reason would the Director have to suspect that I'm a psychic? There's nothing in my past that would suggest as much. Also, the Director doesn't strike me as something to believe in ESP. She seems far too logic-oriented to throw her faith behind something that shouldn't exist.

"It was an accident," the Director says, quietly. She tugs on the chain beneath her desk. Grudgingly, Hecate retreats back into the shadows, but her black, pupil-less eyes never leave my head. Her relentless stare let's me know that this isn't over. "Goodbye, Becca Fisher."

I can't escape the cabin fast enough.

Karen is waiting for me outside. I think I smell cigarette smoke around her, but I'm too panicked to try and find out for sure. "Did you two have a pleasant talk?" the counselor asks.

I don't even try to lie to her. "No. And why is the dog such a bitch?"

Surprisingly, Karen chuckles at this. "I get where you're coming from, but I wouldn't let the Director hear you saying that. She loves that dog more than anything else."

"Well, her dog was about five inches away from ripping my fucking throat out, so forgive me for not feeling that peachy about it."

Karen raises her eyebrows at me. I realize that I've dropped the F-Bomb again, but thankfully, she doesn't give me a mark for swearing.

Huh. Maybe Karen isn't such a mini-Director after all.

"Just steer clear of the dog and you'll be fine. Hecate's bark is worse than her bite— she's well-trained, and she won't hurt you unless you deliberately piss her off. Now, c'mon, I'm supposed to take you back to your cabin and give you some time to cool down before lunch starts. You look like you need some space."