"God, this is so stupid, don't you think?" This is what Becca asks me as we head off into the woods. We've been talking more after the whole kissing mess, as if standing in the freezing rain and pretending to have romantic feelings for each other bonded us together somehow. She hasn't brought up Jesse again, either, which I greatly appreciate.

I don't mind it being almost-friends with Becca. She's smarter than most of the people at camp; even though she likes Finn. Which is just poor judgment, in my opinion.

"Yeah," I respond, clambering over a lichen-covered boulder. "Searching for missing campers is so inconvenient."

"Don't even pretend you're enjoying this." She stomps down on a branch, severing it in half, then picks up the straighter half and re-purposes it as a walking stick. "I think it's really unfair that Owen's making us do this. It's not our fault Clancey decided to wander off and disappear. Nobody really gave a damn about him, anyways."

"Your level of empathy shocks me."

"The only people who actually liked him are Sean and Eric."

These two names bring to mind a memory from last night; me, dashing through the woods like some crazed deer, with the two boys chasing after me. Not my most well-executed plan ever, but it did the trick.

I blink the images away quickly as Becca continues, "They're not much better than Clancey themselves. All muscles and no brains. I know their type all too well. And speaking of knowing things, are Finn and you ever going to tell me what really happened last night?" She shoots me a sharp look. Her piercing gaze reminds me too much of the night when she told me she was a psychic, or curandera. "Don't even bother trying to talk your way out of this. Finn's a terrible liar, and I can tell when you're up to something. So what's going on?"

"Nothing. Everything's fine; I'll tell you more later." I cut a meaningful look at the other campers in our group, who hastily avert their gazes, trying, to no avail, to pretend that they haven't been listening to our entire conversation. "Somewhere more private."

Becca understands. "Did it have to do with...." She leaves Clancey's name unspoken.

I nod in silent agreement, and she frowns, just a little bit.

We keep walking. Becca wanders off to talk with the other campers, sharing theories about which counselors like each other. Apparently, Mary and James have a thing for each other, as well as Owen and Karen, whose names come up the most. Everyone in the conversation seems convinced that they're in love.

"I saw them talking on the dock once," one of the campers, a girl with long black hair, says conspiratorially. "Karen was making all of these hand gestures; I think they were having an argument about something."

"Did you hear what it was about?" the other camper asks. I think I remember his name— Jeremy or something like that. He looks eager for gossip.

"No," says the black-haired girl— Annie?— disappointed. "I tried to get closer, but Karen saw me and yelled that she'd give me two marks if I didn't disappear fast. She sounded really angry."

"It must have been serious, then."

Annie's face turns dreamy. "I hope they figure it out and get together. I think they'd be such a cute couple."

"Karen could do better," says Jeremy factually. "Owen's forehead looks too big for his face."

"What about Wolsey?"

Jeremy shudders. "No way. Wolsey gives me the creeps. He always has an unfocused look on his face, like he's here, but not really here, ya' know? One time I saw him standing in the middle of the woods, not doing anything, just staring. He's so weird."

"He was doing the same thing at the bonfire last week," Annie says. "A few campers started throwing sand and pebbles at each other, and he didn't say anything. Then Daniel got hit in the face and started bleeding everywhere and Wolsey still didn't notice. He just kept looking at the lake."

"He's so weird," Jeremy says again. "Three out of ten, at best."

They continue gossiping, but it's all dull and uninteresting— for some reason, I don't really care if the cafeteria lady smokes weed in her spare time, or if the Director's had three husbands, or if Giselle has a secret stash of booze hidden in her cabin. (She probably does.) My rule is this: if it doesn't apply to me, it's not important.

The other campers actually seem to care about camp gossip, so I let them talk while I observe the forest. It's a pretty day. Not raining for once. Something bright and blue shimmers through the trees— the lake. I didn't realize how close we were to the water. I can almost hear the waves lapping against the pebble shore. The water doesn't even look black from here. Maybe a trick of the light, or an odd reflection?

A shout rips abruptly through the air. I tear my gaze away from the lake, but not before something heavy runs into my shoulder, sending me stumbling.

"Shit! My ankle— I think I twisted it!" It was Becca who ran into me, probably after tripping over a root. She tumbles, half-falling, half-crouching to the ground, clutching and cursing at her leg. "It felt like something grabbed it— oh fuck, it really hurts...."

"Are you okay?" Annie exclaims. 

"No, I'm fucking not! Somebody go get me my walking stick, I dropped it when I fell." Becca clenches her eyes shut and grimaces in pain. "Oh shit, it's definitely sprained, I can feel it— shit! Hurry up, what's the point of all of you if you can't even find a stick?" She curses loudly, this time in Spanish, which seems to alarm the other campers enough to get them moving.

But none of them actually know which way to move. Annie rushes towards the lake to find the walking stick, but I wave her out of the way. She's headed in the wrong direction — she should be running away from the lake; that's where Becca dropped her walking stick, in the brush.

Becca continues to swear as I stride over to the place where she first fell, scanning the forest floor for her walking stick. It's not hard to find— I spot it almost instantly, half-covered by a pile of leaves.

Then I bend down to pick it up, and my fingers brush against something warm.

Before I can even react, a hand shoots out of the leaves, latching onto my arm. One of the campers screams. Becca swears even louder. I fall backward, dropping my own walking stick, but the hand holds fast.

The underbrush rustles loudly. A body rolls out of the bushes and onto my feet, their grey, camp-issued sweatpants stained by mud and grass. One of the campers blows wildly on their safety whistle, but it's drowned out by the other's screams... I notice, with a sort of dull panic, that the hand is still gripping my arm, hard enough that I feel my fingers going numb.

The body gives a lurch. Their head turns to face us, and hoarse words rattle from their cracked lips.

"Monster... in the water... don't trust him...."

"What monster?" I demand. "Why shouldn't we trust him?"

"No, no, no, not the monster... him, don't trust him...."

"What monster?"

The person's eyes fly open. Becca shouts in alarm.

Because the eyes, a brilliant blue, are unforgettable. Looking at them, it's not hard to tell that it's Clancey gripping steadfastly to my arm, his expression terrified and his face covered in blood.