I keep the curtains above my bed slightly parted so that most mornings around six, sunlight streams through the windows and spills across my face, gently waking me up. Keyword: most. Some mornings, I'm woken up— not very gently— by my complaining roommate. (He likes to forget that I, unlike him, have a normal sleeping cycle.) Today, fortunately, the sun wakes me up before Ronan gets the chance. Bright sunlight seeps through my eyelids, turning them a translucent orange, and above my head the oak tree creaks and groans like it's waking up, too.

I stretch my arms out above my head and pull my muscles taunt, cracking a few joints as I forcibly tug my exhaustion away. The hands on my wristwatch are barely scraping six, but I can already tell that it's going to be a long day. It's always a long day at Lightlake.

I slip out of bed and go to change into my running clothes and sneakers. Last night was truly miserable. I was so charged up after my fight with Ronan that I couldn't fall asleep for hours, and when I finally did, I was plagued by nightmares for hours. The leftover adrenaline in my veins feels like static.

I just need to go for a run, that's all. Hit the trails. Clear my head. I always feel better when my blood is pumping.

I'm rummaging through my drawers to find my windbreaker (it's still pretty chilly outside) when Ronan finally wakes up. He looks even more disgruntled than usual, and his black spikes of hair seem sharp enough to cut diamond.

"Long night?" I ask. It's the first thing I've said to him since my rejected apology, and it feels weird coming off my tongue. Last night we were practically at each other's throats, and now we're exchanging pleasantries. It's so casual. Way too casual.

"Not too long," Ronan grumbles. "Your mother kept me company."

"Very funny. You know that my mom lives in Indiana, right?"

"Don't worry. I made sure she flew first-class on the way here."

"As if. My mom wouldn't even give you the time of day."

"That's not what she said last night...."

I roll my eyes at him as I tug my windbreaker on over my shoulders. "You're such an asshole in the morning."

"Going running again? Don't forget to say hello to your girlfriend for me!"

"Becca isn't my girlfriend."

"That's funny. I don't remember saying her name."

I scowl at him. "Stay out of it. This isn't any of your business."

"I know. Here's my unsolicited advice: stop thinking about her. Becca Fisher is more more trouble than she's worth."

This doesn't constitute a response, so I don't give him the pleasure of receiving one; I just wave at him and walk out the door, making sure the hinges stick in the open position so that he can either get out of bed and shut it, or freeze under his sheets.

I didn't give Ronan the wrong size shirt on purpose, but sometimes I wish I did. 

***

When I hit the trails, it's only a matter of time before I run into Becca. She usually starts running at the same time that I do (I've tried leaving earlier and later, but she always find me nevertheless), and most of the trails merge into each other around the lake anyways. Resistance is futile— I just can't find a way to avoid her, so I've mainly stopped trying.

I know she's approaching once I hear the sound of tennis shoes smacking against the dirt behind me. Becca might have a glorious stride, but all of her steps are so angry, like she's trying to exact personal vengeance against the ground. I speed up, hoping to put some distance between us, but her footsteps only grow closer. This girl is never going to leave me alone, I think wearily. I slow down and let her catch up to me.

"You run like a chicken," Becca yells.

Of all the things I'm expecting her to say, this wasn't one of them. "What's that supposed to mean?" I demand, not sure whether I should be offended or not.

"It means that your elbows should bend at ninety degree angles and move from your hips to your pectorals, obviously. Hips to nips, Murphy. Simple as that. Stop flailing your arms around like a chicken that got its head chopped off."

I scowl at her. Definitely offended, then. "Are you seriously correcting my running form?"

"Yes, but only because it's painful to watch."

Becca is jogging at my side now, matching my pace like it's nothing. I give her a dirty look to show just how little I appreciate her unwarranted advice; which, of course, she ignores.

"I've been running on my Cross Country team for two years now," I tell her. "If there's a problem with my form I think that my couch would have told me already."

"Is your coach blind?"

"Fuck you."

Becca is unfazed. "I'm just trying to give you some advice, moron. It's not my job to take on charity cases, but you're actually going to strain a muscle if you keep running like that. So do you want my help or not?"

"Not, actually. I hate to break it to you, but so far you've done more criticizing than helping."

Becca glares at me, as if this is all my fault— as if I really am a moron. "God, you're really going to make this difficult, aren't you? I guess that I'll just have to spell it out for you. This is how you should be running, okay?"

And then Becca does something totally unexpected: she seizes my bicep and starts forcefully course-correcting my arm motions like some sort of overly aggressive personal trainer. "See what I mean?" she insists. Her grip is as strong as steel, but her hands are surprisingly warm— and soft. "Up and down, just like that. Way more stable and aerodynamic than that shit you were doing before. Also, you're less likely to throw out your elbow in the future."

I think my brain must be lagging, because I still haven't tried to yank my arm away. I just let Becca keep doing what she's doing, even though her hand is touching my hand and it's really starting to freak me out.

"Do you understand what I mean now?" Becca asks.

I'm too bewildered to do anything but nod.

"Good." Becca releases my arm just as quickly as she grabbed it. Her expression is unchanged, as if she wasn't just groping my bicep. Sometimes I doubt that even an earthquake could rattle her demeanor. "Don't make me have to fix your arms again. I'll be in a much worse mood next time."

"Next time?"

"Of course. Did you really think your arms were your only problem? You also need to fix the length of your stride, the way you bend your knees, your ankles, your torso—"

"Stop!" I shout. To my surprise, Becca actually does. "God, what is your damage? You want to talk about all the things wrong with me? Well, get in line! You're not the only person at this camp that thinks I'm a total failure."

"I don't think you're a failure," Becca says, her brows furrowing. "I just think you need some improvement."

"Yeah, you and everybody else," I mutter.

"Finn, why are you getting so upset?"

I stop running. I plant my feet in the dirt and just stop. "I'm not upset," I say, even though I doubt I've sounded less upset in my life. "I'm just—" My voice hitches, and to my horror, I feel a tear trace its way down my cheek. "I could really use a friend right now, okay?"

Becca's mouth is open, but she doesn't say anything.

I wipe my tears away angrily, determined to get rid of the evidence. I can't believe I just cried in front of Becca Fisher. She must think I'm so lame. I am so lame. I don't think I could act lamer if I tried.

After a long pause, Becca says, "I didn't realize."

"Forget about it. I'm being stupid."

Becca drags a hand through her hair, pulling some of it out of her braid. Her blue-brown eyes are wide. Bewildered. "I didn't realize how much this camp was bugging you."

"It's fine. I'm fine. Let's just pretend that this never happened, okay?"

"What are you going to do? Run away?"

I let out a feeble laugh. "Something like that, yeah."

"Don't be ridiculous." Becca tilts her chin at the long expanse of trail in front of us. "Come on. There's nothing more therapeutic than a good run."

"I don't want to run with you, Becca."

"Yes, you do. Now, are you going to keep standing there and complaining about how hard your life is, or are you going to do something about it?"

"I'd rather just stand here and complain...."

Becca pokes me in the rib-cage. "Not an option."

"Then why'd you phrase it like one?"

She pokes me again. "Let's go. Don't forget those ninety-degree angles."

I groan loudly. "You're the worst."

Becca just laughs. "That's the spirit, Fish." Then she's gone, rocketing down the path at her typical insane speed.

That's when I decide to do something unexpected— I follow her.

I must really be in shock from the whole arm-holding thing because I don't even process what I'm doing until Becca turns her head towards me and asks, both surprised and impressed, "Caught up, have you?" This is when I realize that I'm matching Becca's pace, stride for stride. We're no longer racing each other. We're running together.

Then— get this— Becca actually grins at me. Grins! Like this has been her idea all along, and her plan is finally succeeding. (I think I just got Obi Wan Kenobi'd.)

"Nice work," Becca says, and I'm pleased to hear that she means it. "But can you keep up with this?"

Just like that, she's gone— but she isn't running on the path anymore. We're going full Cross Country now. I watch as she skips off the trail and bounds away into the unmarked forest, and for the first time, I don't think twice about following after her. Becca Fisher has been a challenge since the first day I met her, and now that I actually have the chance to beat her, there's no way I'm backing down.

"You call this hard?" I call out. Before, I was feeling clunky and out of breath, but now it's like someone injected pure adrenaline into my veins. I'm not even out of breath anymore. "My grandma runs faster than this!"

"Oh, really? Can she also run faster than this?"

Becca surges forward, forcing us both into a dead sprint. We're dashing through the woods like our lives depend on it, tearing through trees and hurdling logs and pulling a dozen other stunts that I never would have dared to try alone. My mind has to move faster than my legs to keep up with the flurry of obstacles— it's all leap that log, duck under that branch, avoid the brambles, crisscross around the loose rocks.... One mistake, that's all it takes; one slip-up and you're lying face-down on the forest floor, your ankle broken and tendons shredded like chicken on a sloppy-joe.

But the risk only makes it more exhilarating. This is what running should be, I think. This is what real running is.

Becca maintains a distance of a few yards in front of me, dodging trees and roots with almost spiritual ease. It's truly mesmerizing to watch her run. She functions like a well-oiled machine— her stride is perfect, and her gait never falters. Becca has the determination of the Terminator and the elegance of Michelle Pheiffer; and now, I'm finally running with her.

The run is so energizing, so eternal, that it feels like we're never going to stop; like we're just going to keep running and running and running until our bodies are gone and we're nothing more than a pair of summer breezes racing through the air. But the moment is gone faster than it began, and when Becca finally stops I'm so caught up in watching her braids bouncing up and down against her back that I nearly crash into her.

I manage to spin away at the last second, avoiding a second major collision. The velocity of sprint is broken, the moment is gone. "What's wrong?" I gasp, more than a little alarmed by our sudden halt. I can't believe that Becca actually stopped. I've never seen her stop during a run before.

Becca frowns into the woods. I'm wheezing like an asthmatic, but she's barely even broken a sweat. "Something is happening," she says.

"What is?"

Her brown-blue eyes narrow. "Get down. We have company." Without further explanation, she grabs me by the corner of my shirt and yanks me into a crouch behind a fallen tree.

Feeling both annoyed and a little scared, I demand in a low voice, "Becca, what the hell is going on with you? We're in the middle of the woods; there's no way anybody else could be out here."

"We're not alone anymore. Shut up in listen."

There's something inherently commanding about Becca's tone that makes me do as she says. Sure enough, as soon as I tune in my ears, I start to hear people laughing in the distance— at least three of them.

Becca nods at me when I turn to her, signaling that she can also hear the noise. "They've been awake all night," she says. "They weren't at the camp fire."

The laughing gets closer. I rise to my feet, wanting to get a better look, but then Becca tugs me back down again.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," she warns.

"Why not?"

Twing! A small, round object flies over my head and hits a nearby tree, spraying flecks of wood into the chilly air. The laughing morphs into whooping. "Great shot!" I hear someone cry. "You're a natural, Clancey!"

Clancey. My blood runs cold.

Everything is starting to make sense now.

"He's got a BB gun," Becca says offhandedly, as if this bit of information isn't worrying in the slightest. "That's why."

"Aren't BB guns banned at camp?"

"A lot of things that are banned at camp find their way into camp anyways. Take your Walkman, for example."

"How'd you know about that—?"

Becca shushes me. "Calm down, I'm not going to tell— I love music just as much as the next person. Your contraband Walkman isn't what we should be focused on right now. You need to be a lot more careful about the things you tell your roommate."

"Ronan? Why?"

"He must have told Clancey about the trail that leads out of camp. There's no other way those three would have been able to sneak out and get the gun." Another BB pellet whizzes over our head, thwacking loudly against a rotund pine tree. The impact is followed by more whooping. "Ronan isn't a bad kid. He just has a big mouth and likes to make friends with the wrong people."

"You're just saying that because you don't have to live with him."

"Hmm. That's fair."

More bullets fly by. "We can't let them carry on like this," I whisper. "Clancey is dangerous without a BB gun— can you even imagine the havoc he'll wreck with one?"

"Don't try to intervene. You'll just get hurt. This is a problem for the counselors, not us."

"And what happens when shooting at trees becomes boring, and Clancey decides to start to using campers as target practice instead?"

"Let's just hope that he's not shooting at us."

One of the pellets hits the front of the log we're crouching behind. I wince as if I can feel the impact on my own skin. "C'mon Becca, we can't just do nothing," I insist.

"Nothing is exactly what we're going to do. Now, unless you want a face full of plastic, I suggest that you keep your mouth shut."

I scowl at her. "I'm not just going to stand by while Clancey terrorizes this camp. Not anymore."

"Finn, be reasonable. You don't even have a plan—"

"I don't care. This crosses the line. If you're still too scared to stand up to him, then just stay here." My words are a challenge, good and pure, and see Becca react immediately, hackles raised, eyes narrowed. "I don't know about you, but I'm tired of being Clancey's doormat."

"Better his doormat than his bull's eye," Becca points out. "But if you want to go kamikaze, fine. I hope you enjoy hives."

There's more shouting, but the tone has shifted— the boys sound urgent now, rather than playful. "Catch a load of this!" someone— I think Eric— shouts. "Clancey, can you hit it?"

"You say that like it's hard," Clancey responds. The gun goes off again, but this time the impact sounds different. It isn't followed by the sound of plastic hitting tree bark— but instead the yowling cry of a wounded animal.

And just like that, I'm leaping to my feet.