When I arrive at the Mess Hall, I don't bother eating breakfast. I have more important things to do than be hungry, so instead of grabbing a plate of food, I head straight for Finn and Becca (they're sitting right next to each other; it's like a two-for-one deal), and grab them by the shoulders, guiding them over to a part of the Mess Hall where nobody will eavesdrop on our conversation. Neither protests this abrupt abduction. I guess they've gotten so used to being randomly pulled aside for secretive discussions that they aren't even surprised by it anymore.

"I'm sensing you're about to explain to us a plan that will either get us kicked out of camp or left for dead in the Alaskan wilderness," Becca says, her tone nonchalant. She chews thoughtfully on a stale-looking bagel while she speaks. "But that's just me."

"Funny," Finn mutters. "I was sensing the same thing."

"So, which one is it today?" asks Becca. "Expulsion, or death?"

"Neither," I say firmly. I'm confident in my plan and I want them to be, too. "I've been thinking things over since the whole Clancey incident, and I've decided that our best course of action is to force Wolseley to talk to us about what happened in the summer of ′69."

"Expulsion it is," Becca says.

Finn shakes his head frantically at me. He's been agitated ever since we found Clancey in the woods, and now, even the idea of danger puts him on the verge of a nervous breakdown. "Nope. No way. Hard pass. I already told you, Ronan, I'm done with your crazy plans. Breaking into the Director's cabin was enough for me. I don't want to be the next unconscious camper discovered in the bushes, so just leave me out of this."

Becca shoves him playfully in the shoulder. "Seriously, Finn, you need to grow a pair." Or at least that's what it sounds like she says— there's too much bagel in her mouth to tell for sure.

Bagel or not, it does the trick, and Finn's cheeks flush a pale shade of pink. "What's wrong with not wanting to die?" he demands. "Am I the only person in this group with any common sense?"

I stare at him. "You have common sense?"

He gestures at me with a specific finger. "Go to hell."

"Well, if we're a group, we're going to need a cool name," Becca reasons. "Any suggestions?"

"There will be no cool names!" Finn snaps, pressing a set of fingers against both temples. I have to resist the urge to smirk. It's so entertaining when he gets worked up like this. "I'm done with secret meetings and mysterious talks and almost being murdered by someone I don't even know! I'm done picking locks and breaking windows and running from hornets—"

A head of shaggy brown hair bobs up to us, carrying with it the distinctive reek of marijuana. "Hey, look, it's the Dream Team!" Matt Mernan crows, flashing us a mouthful of metal. "I have to ask— is membership to your club audition-only, or do you accept walk-ins?"

All three of us make eye contact at the same time. Becca looks triumphant, Finn looks horrified, and I'm just here for the show.

"The Dream Team," Becca exclaims, while Finn cries, "No!"

Matt wedges a fingernail between his two front teeth and flicks a piece of greenery out of his braces. "Well, there go my hopes of being one of the cool kids." He wiggles his hand at us in a cheery wave. "See you later, Dream Team!"

The stoner saunters away, whistling an upbeat tune that sounds a lot like the sea shanty "Drunken Sailor". Finn wrinkles his nose at Mernan's retreating form. "Dream Team?" he repeats incredulously. "Does he really think that's original?"

Becca shrugs. "I kinda liked it."

"No!" Finn says, utterly scandalized. "Did I not just make myself clear? There will be no cool names!"

She ignores him, extending her hands in the air as if she can already see our names printed on a billboard. "The Dream Team. It has a nice ring to it."

I nod my head in agreement. "It's certainly going to take a Dream Team to pull off this stunt. We only have thirty minutes of breakfast left, but if Wolsey's still replacing the window in the Director's cabin, that should be enough time to force him to talk to us. Sound good?"

"No," says Finn.

"Yes!" says Becca.

"Then it's decided." I clap my hands on their shoulders like a football coach, summoning up one of my most winning smiles. "Let's go threaten a counselor."

Wolsey is slouched against the side of the Director's cabin when we find him, a fresh pane of glass held delicately in his hands. He looks decently surprised to see us approaching, but attempts a wave anyways— before realizing that he's holding a large, breakable piece of glass, and quickly fumbles to a stop.

"Hello," he says, a quizzical expression taking over most of his long, thin face. "How can I help you three today?"

I decide to skip the formalities and head straight to the point. "We know that there's a monster in the lake, Wolsey. And we know that the Director closed the camp down for three years awhile back. Now, we want answers. So tell us everything you know about what happened in the summer of ′69."

The glass pane drops from Wolesley's hands. It hits the ground with a spectacular crash, and explodes into a million tiny crystalline shards.

"That's it," Finn says, throwing his hands up in the air. "I'm out."

He tries to bail, but I grab him by the shirt sleeve. "Nobody is going anywhere," I hiss. It's too early in the day to be starting a fight with Finn, but this is important, and I need him to stay. "We came here looking for answers, and I'm not leaving until I find them."

"I'm sorry, I don't think I can help you," Wolsey says in a faint voice. "I should go— get another pane of glass— I am sorry, I really am—"

Finn finally yanks his shirt sleeve out of my hand. "Don't make me break your nose again," he growls at me.

"Oh, shut up. You're being such a drama queen."

"Boys," says Becca sharply. "Your groundskeeper is getting away."

Wolsey freezes mid-stride, looking back at us like a deer caught in the headlights. "I wasn't— I'm not—"

Signing, I turn to Becca and give her a meaningful look. She nods at me. There's an unspoken agreement at camp that Becca is the most convincing person around, and by convincing, I really mean incredibly threatening.

Right now, I need Wolsey to stay. And I'm not afraid to do whatever it takes to make that happen.

"We know what you did," Becca states, stopping Wolsey is his tracks. I give her a subtle thumbs-up, and she continues, this time crossing her arms over her chest, "There's no use hiding anymore. We know all of your secrets, Wolsey, so you might as well start talking now."

Finn is staring at Becca in complete confusion, like he can't tell if she's bluffing or not. Then I think back to our conversation last night and wonder if I've mistaken bewilderment for fear.

Wolsey wobbles around to face us. "You d-d-don't understand," he stammers. His pale blue eyes dart frantically between us and the broken glass, and I can sense the panic growing in him, can see it in his bloodless face and his trembling hands. "I didn't keep this secret because I wanted to— I only did it because the Director ordered me to! Please. I don't want to betray her trust."

"You saw what happened to Clancy in the woods," Becca says accusingly. "Do you want more kids to get hurt? Their blood will be on your hands."

"No, no, no— of course not. But I can't tell— I told her I wouldn't—"

"That doesn't matter now," Becca says. "We need to know what happened in ′69, and you're the only person at this camp who can tell us. So, will you stay silent and put another camper's life in danger, or will you help us out?"

"It's not my choice to make. Believe me, I never wanted the boy to get hurt. I never..." Wolsey covers his face with hands and lets out a noise that sounds like a muffled sob. "I have no idea how you even know about '69, but it doesn't matter because I can't tell you anything, I can't. I made a promise, and I can't break my promise. Not to the Director. Not after everything that happened..."

"You'd rather keep your promise than save a life?"

"No, no! That's not what I meant! God, I can't talk to you anymore— I can't do this anymore—" Wolsey holds his hands up and backs away like he's about to bolt. "Please just leave me alone. Please. I'm not the person you want. I can't help you. I can't help anyone."

To my surprise, Finn speaks up before Becca. His voice is calm and steady, like he's trying to soothe a cornered animal. It's the same tone he used on Hecate and it works like a charm on the groundskeeper. He stops shuddering and holds his ground. "We don't blame you, Wolsey. Nobody blames you. Whatever happened in ′69 wasn't your fault."

"How— how do you know that?"

"Because I know that you're a good person, Wolsey. And you would never allow a camper to get hurt at Lightlake."

"I'm... I'm a good person," Wolsey repeats, a bit uncertain. "Yes. Yes, you're right. It wasn't my fault. I didn't want any of the campers to get hurt. It was an accident. A tragedy. That's what the Director told his parents. An accident."

I realize, with a shock, that this is working. We didn't need Becca to interrogate Wolsey. We needed Finn. We needed Finn and his stupid puppy eyes and comforting bullshit, and most of all, we needed his relaxed demeanor. Because when you put too much pressure on a fragile thing, it doesn't break— it shatters. Just like the sheet of glass.

"I'm sorry we made you upset," Finn says. "You're a good man, Wolsey— a brave man. I hope that you decide to show us some of that bravery today. Becca is right— if you don't tell us what happened in '69, more campers will get hurt.

"I'm not a brave man," the groundskeeper whispers, ducking his head in shame. "I'm a failure. It was my job to save him, and I couldn't. He was hurt and I couldn't save him. Emory. His name was Emory. I think about him every day..."

"Look at me, Wolsey. Look at me." Finn speaks so forcibly that the groundskeeper actually listens. "I know exactly how you feel. Before I came to this camp, I was trying to save an endangered frog species, and I failed. Simple as that. I spent weeks— weeks— tearing myself up about it, when the reality of the situation was staring me in the face: sometimes, we can't save everyone. Sometimes, we have to cut our losses and move on. Because it isn't the failure that matters— it's the fact that we tried, and that we're going to keep trying, no matter what kind of obstacles are in our way."

I almost hear myself say, ever thought about becoming a motivational speaker? but instead, I hold my tongue. Finn's speech was cheesy as hell, but that doesn't mean it didn't get the job done. The groundskeeper is gaping at him like he's just seen the light. I watch as his shoulders sag with relief, and his furrowed forehead loses all its tension.

"That was— that was very kind," Wolsey says, blinking back tears. "But I'm not as brave as you, Murphy. I can't tell you what the Director told me."

"We'll talk in private. She won't find out—"

"The Director always finds out. Always."

"Not this time. Wolsey, I promise you, we won't tell a soul about Emory. All we want to know is why the Director shut the camp down for three years. That's it."

"You... you promise?"

"I swear on our lives," Finn says. "And we never break our promises."

In the corner of my eye, I see Becca wince. Before Finn or Wolsey can notice her reaction, she quickly disguises it as an itch and reaches up to scratch her forehead. "Yeah," she says, noticeably less enthusiastic. "We promise."

"We promise," I repeat, even though I'm thinking about all the promises I've broken, too. The Dream Team doesn't have a great track record for staying true to their word. Finn isn't a saint, even Wolsey worships him like one. I've seen all of Finn's reckless mistakes. I've seen him crack under stress. I can only hope he doesn't let his emotions get the best of him around the skittish groundskeeper."

"Fine," Wolsey says, sucking in a deep, trembling breath. "I'll tell you what happened. As long as you make sure— as long as you swear— not to tell anybody else. Not even the Director."

Finn nods. "It will be our secret."

"Yeah," Becca says. "We aren't snitches."

For some odd reason, this last statement makes Wolsey's face slacken with relief. "Good. But we can't talk here— it's not private enough. We'll have to go somewhere else."

Alarm bells ring in my head. I trust the groundskeeper not to murder us in cold blood, but that's about it. He's not exactly a stable person. "Like where?" I ask.

At this, Wolsey's expression turns grave again. "The place where it all began," he tells us. "Meet me at the docks tomorrow morning, before your first activities. It happened to Emory in the lake. There, I'll explain everything."