After the Sunday night campfire, I return to my cabin to say goodnight to my roommate. But I have no intention of sleeping.

Angela is already in bed when I arrive, working on a charcoal sketch in the fancy sketch-pad her girlfriend sent her in the mail. She barely gives me a second glance as I start stuffing pillows under the sheets of my cot to make a fake body. "Sneaking out again?"

"If I told you, that would make you my accomplice."

Her hands sweep across the creamy paper with a delicate intensity, the outline of a rocky mountainside beginning to appear. "And if the counselors ask, I didn't see anything."

I flash her a grin. Then, I grab my jacket and head for the door.

By the time I reach Beckarof Cabin, it's past ten and I'm expecting for the lights to be turned off (Finn is an obsessive follower of the lights out rule), so I'm pleasantly surprised to see the warm glow of a lamp peaking through the crack between the curtains and the wall. I clear the three stairs with one jump and rap my knuckles against the door.

Ronan opens it promptly. He gives me a quick once-over. "You're not a counselor."

"No. Why are your lights still on?"

In response, he opens the door wider. "War," he says as if this explains everything. "The war to end all wars."

I step inside. A puzzling scene unfolds in front of me. "Uh, care to elaborate?"

"We're playing war," Finn says cheerfully. He's sitting on the floor and clutching a handful of cards, the rest of the deck piled messily in front of him. I look over at Ronan and see that he's holding his own hand of cards. It takes a moment to process all this, but then the details start clicking in my brain— this is war, the card game, not war, as in mutually assured destruction. (Although, with some competitive players, the two are more synonymous than not. This looks like one of those cases.)

"Want to join?" Finn asks. There's a competitive gleam to his eyes I've only seen once before, during our game of Capture the Flag. It's incredibly endearing. "I've never tried to play with three people, but I'm sure we can make it work."

"Hell yeah," I say. "Deal me in."

Which is how I end up breaking camp rules, yet again, by playing a game of War with Ronan and Finn in the middle of the night.

Of course I win. I'm a killer at cards.

Sometimes, it pays to be a psychic.

As I lay my final card down with a triumphant smile, Ronan throws his cards across the floor and exclaims, "That's not fair! You were looking at my cards the entire time!"

"It's a game of chance, not of skill," I tell him, trying to rein in my smile, which is more difficult than it sounds. My life has been a series of losing streaks, so my victory is insanely satisfying, even if it's at something as simple as cards.

Ronan fixes me with the evil eye. "Why are you even here?" he demands. "Nobody invited you—"

"Actually, I invited her," Finn interrupts. (He didn't, but I appreciate the cover.) "So let it go. She didn't cheat at cards, she just got a better hand than you."

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

I'm sure Ronan is about to fire back one of his wise-ass retorts, but instead, he leaps to his feet and announces, "I have to go."

"Wow, sore loser much?"

"It's not about the game. I have to—" he stops mid-sentence, then stares at us with wide eyes, like he's already given himself away. "Shower. I have to shower."

"What's the rush?" Finn asks. "You don't smell that bad."

"I stepped in poison-ivy," Ronan blurts out. "So much poison-ivy."

"Where?"

"Everywhere!"

Finn gives me a look. I shrug at him, as if to say, no comment.

"Don't wait up for me," Ronan says, smoothing his hair back. "And please don't get your teenage hormones on my bed while I'm gone."

"Why would our hormones be on your bed?"

"I don't know. I don't want to know. Just stay away from my side of the room."

"Oh, fuck off."

"That's what I'm trying to do!" Ronan shoots us both a dirty look before stalking out of the cabin, letting the door slam shut behind him.

Finn lets out a long-suffering sigh. "Sorry about him," he says, a bit wearily. He gathers the scattered cards into a neat pile and slips them back into their cardboard box. "He's been acting so weird lately. Want to sit?"

I've been on my feet all night standing around the campfire, so I nod in agreement. We put the cards away and sit down on his bed.

As soon as my legs make contact with the sheets, whatever conversation we had going earlier dies instantly. I'm pretty sure we're both thinking about the same thing now: the kiss we shared by the lake that neither of us has acknowledged yet. Determined to break the awkward silence, I ask, "So, do you and Ronan play cards often?"

"Sort of. We only started a week or two ago."

"Are you friends now?"

Finn half-laughs. "I don't know if we'll ever be friends. It's more like... a truce."

"You broke his nose, and now you're on a truce?"

"We talked it out. Resolved our issues. It's all good now."

"His nose is still crooked."

"Yeah, but he likes it like that. He won't admit it, but he thinks it makes him look more bad-ass. I've seen him checking himself out in the mirror."

I stare off at the beams of wood supporting the ceiling and let the future wash over me like an outgoing tide. "What do you think Wolsey is going to show us tomorrow?"

"God, who knows. I still have no idea why Ronan is so insistent about talking to him. Do you remember how he shattered that window when we brought up the summer of '69? There's something seriously wrong with him."

"So, what's our next move then? If Wolsey doesn't give us any answers?"

"I don't know. Maybe we shouldn't have a next move at all. Why can't we just be perfectly oblivious like all the other campers? Why can't we just focus on—" he waves his hand at the space between me and him— "this?"

"And what's 'this'?" I ask wryly.

Finn's freckled face turns slightly pink. "I— uh—"

"Cat got your tongue?"

"Um...."

"It's okay, Fish, I'm just teasing. You can be such a prude sometimes." I roll my eyes at him and lay back on his bed, so my head is resting on the pillows. That's when I feel something poking into my neck.

But it's not a real sensation. It's a psychic one. Or maybe... a memory. The faded glimpse of a flashlight beam searching through the dark, and a lock being picked—

I reach my hand under the pillow and pull out a folder. The next words leave my mouth before I can fully process them: "Finn, what's this?"

"Oh, nothing," he says, but it's clearly something, because his brown eyes have gone as wide as dinner plates.

I frown at him in confusion. Something about the folder is very muddled. Sometimes, when there's a lot of emotion tied to one object, it gets obscured— harder to see. But I don't understand what could be so important about a single manila folder.

"Where did you get this?"

"I can explain," Finn says quickly. He tries to take the folder from my hands, but I snatch it out of his reach. "Becca—"

"Explain what?" I take a closer look at the folder. There's a name printed on the tab: Fisher, Becca. Something jolts through me. That's my name. "Finn, why is my name on this folder?"

"I can explain—"

I tear open the folder. The first piece of paper looks like a transcript of some sort. One of the lines says, You're going after the wrong person. I only hurt him because I had to. He sells drugs to people who are vulnerable. That's how he makes his profit. By hurting people who are already hurt.

My blood runs cold. I can remember those exact words leaving my mouth and flooding into the chilly air of a police station room. But that was months ago. Why would Finn have the dialogue of my meeting with the police now?

And then everything becomes very clear. No wonder I thought that the folder had significant emotional value. There must be dozens of memories anchored to this folder— stale tears, dried blood, lingering sighs— because this folder, these papers, everything I'm holding in my hands right now—

"This is the file that the Director has on me."

***

Finn closes his eyes.

"You stole my file from the Director's office when you were looking at her computer records," I say. The words come out of my mouth painstakingly slow, as if even my own brain can't comprehend their meaning. "Why?"

"I was curious," Finn says. His voice is soft. Like he can barely force the words out. "That's all. I was just curious."

"Curious— about what? About why I was sent to this camp? About the things I did before I came here? Please, enlighten me."

"It's not like that. I just— well, you never tell me anything about yourself. I only wanted to understand. I was just curious."

I can feel the anger rising up in my chest now, scorching my lungs with red-hot flames. It's a feeling I'm far too familiar with. I've always burned hotter than most. "Fuck your curiosity. If you had just asked, I would have told you why I got sent here."

"No. You wouldn't have."

"Why is it so hard for you to believe that I trust you?"

"Because you don't trust anybody! And you make it very clear!"

"I trusted you!"

"No, you don't. You haven't told me a thing about yourself."

"I told you about my parents."

"You say that like it's some mighty accomplishment, but it's not. I've known you for almost two months now, and I just learned that your parents are Catholic missionaries. You didn't tell me about them. You just stopped lying about them."

"I never lied!"

"Well, you also never told the truth."

"So that's it, then? If I'm not telling you the truth, I'm telling you a lie?"

"Yes. That's exactly what I'm saying."

"Hiding something isn't lying."

"Maybe. But it's not normal, either."

"Normal? What does normal have to do with this?"

"Normal has everything to do with this! Normal people don't keep their family a secret. Normal people don't act like telling their friends basic facts about themselves is the equivalent of handing off the nuclear codes. You're not normal, Becca. Nothing about this is normal!"

"Since when do you care so much about fucking normal?"

Finn slides off the bed and stalks into the center of the room. Then he turns his back on me, hands pressed tightly against his legs. "I think Ronan is right. I think there's something in the lake."

"What does that have to do with our conversation?"

"I don't know. I guess I'm just tired of dealing with so much weird shit. For once, I'd like to have something reliable in my life. Someone I know I can count on."

"So you decided to make that happen by reading my file and then lying about it?"

"No! I didn't read the file, if that's what you're so worried about. It's been under my pillow since the night I... borrowed it."

"Finn, I'm not worried about whether or not you read my goddamn file. I'm angry because you went behind my back instead of just asking me what you wanted to know."

"I have asked you, Becca! My head is filled with questions about you. Every day, I wake up and wonder if you'll be the girl I'm familiar with, or a total stranger again. I don't know anything about you, and you don't trust me enough to share. You don't care enough."

And just like that, my boiling sea of fury spills over. I'm so fucking tired of holding back just to make him feel better. "You want to hear my fucking life story?" I shout. "Well, here it is! Here's my fucking back story!"

I throw the folder at Finn's chest, but he doesn't catch it, and the folder explodes like a bomb, all of the papers inside of it now flying through the air. He manages to grab the edge of the folder and clutches it against his chest, horrified, while the papers touch down lightly around his feet like tiny white airplanes crashing out of the sky.

When I open my mouth to speak, all my other thoughts fly away. The story begins like it always does: with Julia.

"I live in the same town as my cousin. We're best friends. Or, we used to be. Three months ago she overdosed on some kind of synthetic drug and almost died. I was the one who found her." A memory, or a premonition, flashes before my eyes, but I blink it away. Being a psychic never helped when it came to Julia. Not that it's ever really helped me at all. "After doing some digging, I learned that her dealer was my ex's best friend." At this, Finn cringes slightly, and my anger spikes through the roof. "Yes, I dated other guys before you. Obviously. Get over yourself."

"I wasn't—"

"Shut up. I don't care." More flashes. I have to squeeze my eyes shut to focus. "After I figured out who Julia's dealer was, I made a plan. I called him. Said I wanted to buy from him too. He never suspected anything. Why would he? We were friends, we had known each other for years. I met him at a park at midnight. He had the drugs on him, just like I planned. I confronted him about Julia. He denied ever selling to her. And you know me— I deal with a lot of shit, but I don't deal with liars."

Finn ducks his head, almost shamefully. It makes me feel better but it doesn't make me feel good. "I went back to my car, said I was gonna get his money. Instead, I came back with a baseball bat. He stopped lying to me after I shattered his ulna in three places."

"Becca—"

"Let me finish. After I beat him up, I emptied his own drugs on him and called the police. When they arrived, they asked him who hurt him, but he wouldn't say. Nobody wants to admit they got jumped by a girl. So, he dug his own grave. He was arrested for possession of narcotics and, last I heard, sentenced to a year in juvie. Of course, his buddies didn't appreciate what I did to him. They started threatening me, my family. Followed us around. One of them even snitched— called the police and told them what I'd done. But, because my ex's friend wouldn't testify against me, they couldn't charge me with anything. The police decided that I should spend a summer in Lightlake. They said it would be safer for me. Not that I could have argued with them."

I let out a loud, humorless laugh, and the folder that Finn was holding slips through his fingers and falls to the ground. His freckled face is white as a sheet, save for the two pink splotches, one on each cheekbone. "There's your fucking life story. Are you happy now?"

He doesn't answer.

"Now you know who I am. Now you know that the things the other campers say about me are all true."

Still nothing.

"I broke somebody's arm!" I yell. "I beat up my friend with a baseball bat!"

Silence.

"My cousin trusted me to take care of her, and I let her overdose. I almost let her die!"

More. Silence.

Finally, after what feels like forever, Finn opens his mouth and whispers, "I'm sorry."

"You're what?"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry that you had to go through that. And I'm sorry I stole your file. It wasn't right."

My anger falters. This isn't the reaction I was expecting. I was braced for a fight, for accusations, for tears— but not for this. This... humility. "You're what?"

"I'm so sorry, Becca. I thought I had it hard. But getting in trouble with my dad is nothing compared to what you had to go through. I would have been destroyed if something like that happened to one of my family members. I don't blame you for wanting revenge."

"Revenge? I broke somebody's arm. I broke the law."

Finn shrugs. "It sounds like he deserved it."

"Don't say that."

"Why not? It's true."

"You're crazy."

"So are you, apparently."

I stare at him for a few moments. "Maybe."

He cracks a smile. It's so thin and fragile it almost hurts.

Then I realize that maybe I wasn't trying to make things easier on him by holding back. Maybe I was trying to make things easier on myself. I've never trusted anyone like I trusted Julia, and after she overdosed I told myself I'd never trust anyone like that again. But something about Finn forces my guard down. And maybe that's what scared me— not the fact that I was giving my secrets away, but that I trusted someone enough to let go.

I have to sit on the bed again. This is all too much to handle.

Tentatively, Finn sinks down next to me.

"I can't believe I told you all of that," I say hoarsely. "I've never said that aloud, to anybody. Not even the police."

"I'm honored."

"You're right, you know. About me not trusting anybody. I stopped putting my faith in people after what happened to Julia."

"Understandable."

My anger is slowly draining out of my now. I feel like a balloon that someone pricked with a pin. "I'm not mad at you, Finn. I'm mad at myself. For letting Julia down. For letting her get hurt."

"She overdosed. How could that be your fault?"

"It just is. I don't know how to explain it to you, but... basically, I knew that something bad was going to happen to her and I didn't do anything to stop it. I could've prevented her OD. If I'd just paid a little more attention, if I'd—"

"Becca. Stop." He places his hands on mine and squeezes them tightly. "You're not some kind of one-woman army. It's not your responsibility to save everyone."

"You don't understand. I could've stopped it—"

"And then what? Drug addiction is a disease, Becca. You can't cure it in a day. Maybe you could've saved your cousin that one time, but what about the second? Or the third?" Finn's face crumples, and I see in his eyes that he's talking about more than Julia. "Sometimes, we can't always save the people we love. And sometimes... they don't need us to save them. We have to let them save themselves."

"I— I don't know how to let go. I don't know how to let go of her."

Finn purses his lips. At this moment, he almost reminds me of my Abuela— she would react in the same way when I would say I didn't want to be a psychic. "Mi amor," she would tell me. "¿Por qué quieres ser embrujado?" Why do you want to be cursed?

"It's not her you're letting go of."

I press my palms against my eyes, forcing back the inevitable flood of tears that always accompanies my memories of Julia. "If you really knew me, I doubt you'd be so sympathetic."

"Becca, I've known you for two months. Long enough to know that you're a good person. I don't care about what you did in your past, because that doesn't change who you are today. Do you think Julia would want this? For you to fall apart because of her?"

"No," I whisper.

"Then don't."

My hands are trembling. "It's not that easy."

"Easier than you think."

"Nothing is easy for me. Nothing is...." I peel my hands off my face and dig them into the sheets, driving my fingernails into the rigid mattress so forcibly that pain spikes through my joints. "Finn, there's something I need to tell you. About me."

He asks, in an unusually cool voice, "Are you going to tell me that you're in love with my roommate?"

"What? No!"

"Just checking!" He gives me a sheepish smile, playing it off as a joke— but I can tell that he's relieved, even if he doesn't want to admit it. "Because if you were, I'd probably have to drown myself into the lake."

"Why in God's name would I be in love with Ronan Lockwood?"

"I don't know! He's just been acting weird lately. Like, he leaves every night after lights out, and he doesn't come back until I'm asleep. He's clearly up to something. I had to make sure that you weren't his secret girlfriend."

"That's a novel idea. Ronan having a girlfriend...."

"I'm just surprised he hasn't gotten caught yet."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Finn grins at me, the expression so perfectly innocent that I can't help but laugh. "Alright, now as much as I'd like to gossip about your roommate, I really do have something serious to tell you."

"Is this a serious thing that I have to guess? Do you want me to play Twenty Questions with you?"

"Finn, please shut up."

He frowns slightly. "This really is serious, isn't it."

"Yes." And, since I've never been one for small talk, I decide to cut the bullshit and just tell him. No more secrets. No more holding back. It's time for the truth. Again. "Finn, I'm a psychic."

"Oh."

"Do you believe me?"

This question seems to throw him off more than my claim of being able to see the future. "Of course I believe you, Becca," he says like this should be obvious. "I always have."

"Why?"

"Because I—" He stops himself mid-sentence and flushes bright-red, like he was about to utter something absolutely mortifying. When he composes himself, he continues, "Because I do. That's all."

"Alright."

"Is that enough?"

I want to tell him that it's more than enough, that it's the best reaction I could've hoped for, and that I'll never forget how thankful I am for him sticking by my side through all my troubles. But all I say is, "Yes," and pull him into a tight hug. "It's enough. You're enough."

"Alright," he says, his voice slightly muffled by my shoulder. "I'm glad."

"Me too."

I don't think I've hugged anyone since Julia.

And, I have to admit, it feels even better than I remember.