The canoe falls silent again. Ronan flicks his finger at a piece of peeling paint on the rim of the canoe; it flies off into the water and drifts away. A second later, it's joined by another fleck of paint, and then another.

"Stop doing that," I say sharply.

"Stop doing what?" he replies, sending another scrap of paint to its watery demise.

"That," I say, jabbing my finger at the offending paint-job. "You shouldn't flick paint into the lake. It's not good for the..." I struggle to come up with an adequately scathing (yet still factual) remark. "The fish."

Ronan snorts. "Concerned for your family?"

"Wow, so creative. You know it's not funny when you call me that."

"Call you what?" he asks innocently.

My eyes are like slits now. All scrunched up and perturbed. "You know what."

"Enlighten me."

"Guys!" Emily exclaims. "Can we please hold off on the WWE match? This is getting ridiculous. You two are behaving like children."

"Ronan started it," I say.

He lets out a loud peal of laughter. "Oh, boy."

"What's so funny?" I demand aggressively.

"Finn, please—" Emily begins in a beseeching voice.

"Oh, just stay out of it," I snap. "This isn't your business, anyways."

She recoils, hurt flashing across her face. "I'm just trying to—"

"Then don't try," I say, effectively cutting her up.

The lake goes silent around us. The mist has grown closer, like a shroud. It's so thick that I can't even see the counselor's boat anymore.

Ronan scrapes his nail against the paint. Another fleck of faded green flies into the lake.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph; Ronan, did I not already tell you to stop doing that?"

He digs his fingernails underneath the paint and tugs. A strip peels away beneath my hand, a good few inches long, and he makes sure that he's looking me right in the eye when I drop it into the lake.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph are right. I'm going to need all their patience to prevent myself from chucking Ronan overboard.

I slam my paddle down so hard on the canoe that Emily flinches. "That's fucking it," I cry, heat flushing into my cheeks, "I'm so done with you, Ronan! Acting like you can do whatever you want, whenever you want— pretending like there aren't consequences to anything!"

"Why don't you just jump in and swim for the paint, if you care about it so much? Why do you even care?"

"It's not about the stupid paint, and you know it. This is about how you told Clancy exactly how to get his gun back! And how you played that whole game last night just to piss me off! All you do is cause trouble. You just fuck things up all the time, and you never care who gets hurt because of it!"

"Wow, you caught me," he says lazily. "What outstanding detective skills; I see that you take after your father." Behind him, I see Emily grip the side of the canoe like she's anticipating another fight. "Besides," he continues, "It's not my fault that Clancy shoots cats for sport or that Becca likes me better than you. Although you really are missing out on that one— she is an excellent kisser."

I feel my hands clench into fists. "Shut up, Ronan. You don't know what you're talking about."

"I think I do. More than you, at least. It's sort of sad, you know, watching you go after Becca, knowing that she'll never like you back— well, not after what happened last night she won't. You know what? Now that I think about it, you're kind of pathetic."

"So now you're in the mood to make fun of Becca. I was wondering when you were going to bring her up again. What, are you going to go off about Indiana next? My dad? My nickname? You're predictable, Ronan. And you're running out of good insults."

"You're calling me predictable? Have you ever seen yourself around Fisher? Same damn reaction, every time. And, get this— everyone knows. You like Becca, she doesn't like you back. Common knowledge. Hell, I'd be surprised if the Director hasn't figured it out by now."

"Fuck you, Ronan. If you keep talking, I'll— I'll—"

"What? You'll stutter at me? Real threatening."

"I'm not having this discussion with you," I say, my voice trembling slightly. "I'm not going to sink to your level."

"Don't sound so morally superior. I know what you and Becca did to Clancy. I know everything about your precious crush."

"How is that related to any of this?"

"Oh, it's not. You two are just a pair of wackos in a pod, right? She sees things that haven't happened yet and you play along. Do you know what that noise we heard last night was? It was a bird. Hitting the window. I found it when I was leaving for breakfast— right where I was about to put my foot, actually. You're both freaks of fucking nature."

"Don't talk to me about things you don't understand," I say. All of this is beginning to remind me of something that Matt Mernan once said— You can't push someone like that and not expect them to snap. "You don't know anything about me, Ronan."

Ronan raises his eyebrow and cock his head, putting on his worst expression, the one I always claim is going to land him in a jail cell somewhere, and say viciously, "Oh, I think I understand a few things about you, Fish. I know the whole reason you got sent to this camp is because you were lame enough to get arrested by your dad, and all for— what were they again? Frogs." He spits the word out like it's nothing, like it's worse than nothing. And it hurts. It hurts more than anything he's ever said to me before. "The way you talk about those frogs, you'd think they were your fucking children. Frogs! As if you could be any more pathetic."

"Ronan—" I begin threateningly.

"You got in trouble for trying to save frogs. So fucking pathetic— I bet they're all dead now, anyway, not that anybody actually gives a shit—"

Snap.

Ronan hasn't even finished his sentence when my fist swings towards his face. It's a lopsided, lazy blow— one that he could easily dodge if he felt like it, but for some reason, he doesn't. My brain goes blank and I don't stop like I probably should— Becca's voice rings out through my head, hissing the words, do you believe in magic? Then my hand connects with his nose, crunching bones and cartilage— there's a sharp burst of pain, and suddenly he's falling— toppling backward over the rim of the canoe and into the black water of the lake.

There's a loud crash as Ronan flips over the side of the canoe. Water splashes across my shirt as he hits the lake, and I catch one last glimpse of a streak of red— his bloody nose— before he slips beneath the surface and just... vanishes. His descent is impossibly fast. One moment my fist is connecting with his face, and the next, he's nothing but ripples spreading silently across the glossy black water.

Holy shit. I just punched Ronan in the face.

My heart pounds as I wait for him to resurface— but three seconds later, he still hasn't broken the surface, and the ripples from his impact have vanished. That's when I start to panic. Frantically, I scramble to the edge of the canoe, straining for a flash of black hair— until the boat lurches sickeningly, and I have to jolt backward to keep it from tipping. "Ronan!" I shout. The black water remains smooth and untroubled. "Ronan!"

I wheel around to face Emily. She's sitting there with both hands wrapped around her oar in paralyzed consternation, her mouth hanging wide open like a beached fish gasping for air. "Where did he go?" she demands. "He just disappeared—"

"I don't know, maybe he's unconscious, I think I'm going to have to dive in after him—" I rush desperately to the edge of the canoe, but the boat starts to keel again, and Emily shouts at me to get back. "Ronan!" I yell. "RONAN!"

Almost as if it was summoned, a pale hand shoots out of the water. I don't think, I just grab it, and a second later, Ronan follows.

Something's wrong. His arms are slippery with lake water, and the canoe keeps listing dangerously— I can't pull him back into the boat. It's like he's stuck on something.

"Finn, you complete asshole!" yells Ronan. He grips my fingers hard enough to leave bruises as he thrashes wildly around in the water, flailing out with his free arm, blood gushing from his nose. It's a gruesome scene— there's blood all over his nose and cheeks and mouth; he looks like some sort of drowned ghost, returned to haunt me. "I think you broke my face!"

"You were supposed to duck!"

Ronan curses furiously at me. Then he lurches downwards, and his face turns a pasty white. "Shit. I'm stuck!"

"Stuck on what?" I exclaim, but my question is drowned out by the roar of the motorboat. We've finally caught the attention of the counselors. I can hear Owen hollering instructions at us from afar— but what good are instructions when the roommate whose nose you just broke is being slowly drowned to death in a lake that you punched them into? Hopelessly, I try tugging him back into the boat, but his hand only slips further from my grasp. "Jesus, Ronan, what am I supposed to do?"

"You're supposed to get me out, you fucking idiot!" he screams. The canoe gives a mighty lurch, and I find myself tumbling backward, my hand wrenched free from Ronan's grip. He splashes back into the lake and vanishes below the surface.

"Ronan!" I shout. I throw myself back towards the edge, but he's gone. Again. This is insane— how did we go from fighting to catastrophe so quickly?

"Owen said there were undercurrents in the lake," Emily cries. "What if Ronan got sucked down? What if he drowns? How are we supposed to get him back on the boat?"

"I don't know!" I shout. "I'm going to have to dive in—"

"No! You'll get sucked down, too!" shrieks Emily shrilly. "Owen is almost here— we should just wait for him. He'll know what to do— he'll know how to fix this!"

I can hear the hum of the motorboat engine in the distance, a deep, growling sound; accompanied by Owen's frenzied shouts. I think he's telling me to stay put. "They won't get here in time. I'm going to jump in."

Emily buries her head in her hands and groans in dismay. Fear makes my heart thunder in my chest, but a grim determination pulls me upwards, and slowly, I rise to my feet...

And then Ronan explodes out of the lake, his thin fingers scrabbling frantically for a handhold. The canoe pitches violently to the side, and it's a miracle that we don't tip over completely as Emily and I lunge forward, grappling aimlessly; blood and water splashes everywhere, and I'm blinded by the spray, yanking wildly at anything that seems human— somebody's shouting, I can't tell who, and then there's a loud thud as Ronan hits the bottom of the boat, finally free.

After what feels like an eternity, the canoe leavens out and the nauseating rocking motion subsides. Ronan sprawls across the hull of the boat, shoulders heaving as he coughs up lake water, while Emily sits on one of the chairs with her head in her hands, trembling slightly. I don't know what to do, so I just hover over Ronan's shuddering body nervously, waiting for something to happen.

"Fuck," Ronan finally groans, his voice hoarse and scratchy. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve, smearing blood across the blue fabric, "you. Holy hell and a thousand shits, Finn. My ankle is killing me. I think it got caught on a net or something after you punched me over the side of the fucking boat."

I bend over to see, and sure enough, there's a huge, oozing welt on his ankle, weeping blood and turning the water at the bottom of the canoe crimson. My stomach rolls at the sight of it.

Emily voices my concerns. Leaning down from her bench, she eyes Ronan's wound, and says, disgusted, "There's no way a net did that."

"Then what did?" demands Ronan. "Huh? Please, humor me, because I'd love to know what almost killed me two seconds ago."

He tries to pull himself to his feet, but then his face goes white with pain, and he staggers back into a sitting position. Glowering furiously, as if angered by his own body's weakness, he twists around to examine his injured ankle— and his face turns abruptly green. At this exact moment, Ronan makes a very un-Ronan-like noise, wheels around, and vomits over the side of the canoe.

It's not as gratifying as I thought it would be, even though I was so furious with him earlier— I don't think I've ever been so mad at someone in my life! Still, I do feel a little bad for him— it must be hard to throw up with a broken nose.

And then I remember that I broke his nose.

And that now, I'm completely and totally fucked.

The counselors are going to execute me for this. They're going to guillotine me. Actually— they're going to worse than kill me. They're actually going to send me back to Indiana, where dad will promptly stick me in a jail cell for fucking up my only second chance.

Emily moves as if to pat Ronan on the pat, then thinks better of it, probably wanting to keep her hand attached to her arm. Meanwhile, I just gape at the black water, wondering how I could have messed up so badly.

And then the counselors are here, and the bombardment of questions begins. "What happened?" Owen demands, stretching his torso over the side of the boat. His face is like a Renaissance portrait of sheer panic. "How did he fall? What's that on his ankle? Why is his nose bleeding?"

I can see the beads of sweat coating his forehead all the way from the canoe. Even Karen looks frantic, all geared up and clutching a life raft under her arm, still scanning the lake for any possible delinquents to be saved. She catches my gaze and squints at me, almost knowingly, as if she can see that this is my fault. I quickly look away.

This is bad. This is really bad. Why did I have to hit Ronan? Why does he have to always be such an asshole? Fuck!

I turn and meet Emily's eye. She looks scared shitless, but nods her head slightly at me anyways, as if promising, I won't tell if you don't.

But her promise is worth nothing if Karen figures it out first.

"Someone get that boy onto the boat," Karen orders. I can still feel her eyes boring into my skull. "Now!"

Ronan pulls himself shakily to his feet. His skin looks pale enough to be anemic, and he wobbles as he stands, blinking his eyes up at the two counselors on the motorboat almost drunkenly. Somehow, he speaks. "I can get in the boat myself, thank you."

Karen gives him a look. Ronan returns it like a challenge.

He makes it two steps before his eyes roll back and he crumples into a dead faint.

Emily, in a surprising show of agility, manages to catch Ronan before he hits the side of the boat and quickly heaves his body up towards the counselors. Karen is unfazed; I can tell that she was expecting this, but Owen cringes squeamishly when he touches blood, turning almost as pale as Ronan himself.

"Oh— that's a lot of blood—" he whispers, looking sick.

The counselors settle Ronan onto a bench in the boat. Karen sits next to him, to keep him from rolling off. She gives me one last cold look before Owen guides the motorboat away. The calculating glint in her eyes sends shivers crawling down my spine.

I know she knows; I can see it all over her face. Ronan's fainting session might have given me a brief reprieve, but I know that when he wakes up, he'll spill everything, and Karen will be able to confirm her suspicions and I'll be sent away. For good.

There are no second chances at Lightlake. And I just used mine up.