The door slams open, and Karen storms into the cabin without knocking. "The Director wants to see you," she says, so suddenly and forcibly that Angela drops her sketchpad on the floor.

I bend down to retrieve it for her. The creamy paper is covered in charcoal smudges and jagged black lines, the vague outline of a girl's face taking shape in the whirlwind of black. I conjure up her name almost effortlessly: Nina. I've heard Angela speaking her name in her sleep. Angela rarely talks about Nina with me, but when she brings her up during Sharing Circle, her whole face lights up like it's been hit by a ray of sun.

My fingers are trembling as I hand Angela the sketchbook. "I'm sorry," I say hoarsely, but I'm not exactly sure what I'm apologizing for. "She's beautiful."

Angela smiles softly at me. It's a moment of warmth in Karen's frigid interruption. "Thank you. It's hard to draw someone from memory."

I want to tell her about my memories, about how I already know her relationship with Nina won't last, how they'll break up on a rainy day in their senior year of high school in the face of dividing futures. I want to tell her to guard her heart, to steel herself against the hurt, but I know I won't because I'm cursed to bear her pain on my own shoulders. Angela and Nina get to live in the moment, but I will always be one step ahead, constantly aware of the fact that nothing works out the way you want it to.

"Becca Fisher," Karen says. At the beginning of camp, she said my name like it was an order. Now, it comes out as a plea. "She wants to see you now."

"What does the Director want with me?"

"She wishes to speak with you."

"That's nice."

"She wishes to speak with you now."

I stare up at the ceiling and count the number of cobwebs hanging between the wooden beams. Angela has retreated to her bed, burying her nose in Nina's portrait. "Why?"

"I think you know the answer to that already."

Sighing, I turn my gaze away from the ceiling and force myself to meet Karen's eyes. They're bloodshot and watery, and she keeps rubbing at them like she's trying to prove to me that she's just got a bad case of allergies and definitely isn't pining after her secret-boyfriend-turned-murderer.

I wonder if she's going to be fired.

I also wonder if she realizes she's wearing one of Owen's sweatshirts.

"Just do as she asks. Don't make this harder than it has to be." Her voice cracks. "Please, Becca."

I don't think I've ever heard Karen say please before. It's kind of depressing. "Things are already hard. It'd take a fucking act of God to make them harder."

Karen doesn't react to this statement. She doesn't even react to my swearing, which would make her go off on a good day. "I won't argue with you, Becca. Not tonight. The Director is waiting."

She turns her back on me and leaves. When the door closes behind her, I hear something that sounds suspiciously like a muffled sob.

I stare at the ceiling for a few more minutes in a sort of hypnagogic trance. When I've finally mustered the energy to move, I heave myself into a rain jacket, shove on a pair of muddy sneakers, and make my way over to the Director's cabin.

I pass a police officer on the trail. The sight of her tidy blue uniform takes me by surprise. I assumed that the Director would call the police, but I didn't think the officers would arrive so quickly. More time must've passed than I thought while I was stewing in my cabin and waiting for news.

The officer mutters something into her walkie-talkie. I avert my eyes, trying not to draw attention to myself, but continue to watch the officer in my peripheral vision— she's all business, striding in a brisk fashion that makes me think she's doing rounds. She gives me a long, analytic look as I brush past, and my heart rate quickens— can she read the guilt on my face? the fear in my eyes? but my breathing calms when she continues walking, rounding a bend and disappearing from sight.

I wipe a trickle of sweat from my brow. For a moment, I really thought the police officer was going to pull me aside for questioning. It's strange— I didn't feel guilty after breaking Sammy's arm, and that was way more violent that simply steering a motorboat to shore. But now the guilt is so overwhelming that I feel like I'm drowning in it. Slowly but surely, I find myself slipping back into the memories of what happened tonight. It all seems like a dream now— or a nightmare. I remember how I held Finn in my arms, and watched his skin knit itself back together like an injury happening in reverse.

When he washed up on the shore, I was the one who found him. Ronan had run off to get the Director, Wolsey was dealing with Owen, and I was standing by the shore, whispering prayers under my breath. I hadn't prayed since I was a child, but the words were still ingrained in my brain, and they felt like cool relief on my lips.

He walked out of the water like he was going for an evening stroll. Then, he promptly collapsed on the pebbles by my feet. I wanted to scream, but I couldn't make a sound— his camp shirt was soaked with lake water and blood, and there was a wicked bruise rising on his forehead. His eyelids fluttered open and shut like he was dreaming. I shook him by the shoulders, but he didn't respond.

I'm sorry, I told him, when I finally regained my voice. I'm sorry.

I didn't want to hurt him.

I didn't want to hurt anyone.

So I cupped his face in my hands, and pieced all his broken parts back together.

He was hurt, and I was healing him. My grandmother's voice whispered in my ear: curandera. I knew there was something new inside me I'd never felt before; something with the power to fix wounds, not create them.

Curandera.

The bruise on his head had faded away to a dull scar by the time the cavalry arrived. The counselors descended on us like flies, and the Director carried Finn to the Mess Hall herself. Ronan was there, too, his eyes blacker than the depths of the lakes. I could still hear him yelling, you killed him! I wanted to respond, No, I healed him, but I knew he would never believe me. His face, one that I had come to view as friendly, trusting, trusting, was suddenly transformed by distaste, changed into the visage of a stranger.

In that moment, I knew he would never forgive me.

I came to this camp intent on avoiding other campers, already waving the banner of my one-woman-army in the air. But friendship found me anyway. It hit me like a punch to the face, and I've never felt so grateful to be knocked out cold. I think Ronan and Finn might be two of the best friends I've ever had. And, judging by the way Ronan looked at me by the beach, I've probably ruined my relationship with both of them. Because once Ronan tells Finn that I left him in the lake... he won't forgive, either.

I didn't want this.

I didn't want any of this.

When I get to the Director's cabin, the room is cold and dimly lit, illuminated only by the wavering desk-lamp perched by her computer. The fireplace is dark and occupied by blackened cinders and ash, and the flannel curtains have been drawn closed, blocking out everything but a few clever shreds of moonlight. The room is so dark and gloomy that for a moment, I wonder if I've stepped into a shadow dimension— a parallel universe that light hasn't reached yet. Then the Director calls my name and I'm called back to Earth; the only place worse than an evil alternate dimension.

She's sitting in her chair, legs folded primly, and she looks so similar to the woman I confronted during the first week of camp, but also so different. Her shoulders are slouched instead of proud, and her ramrod posture has been reduced to a defeated hunch. There are lines carved deep into her forehead and cheeks, and I'm sure her eyes would look just as weary if they weren't obscured by a pair of silver reflective sunglasses.

The Director is distraught. And I don't have to be a psychic to know why.

"I can explain," I say. I don't know why these are my first words, but they feel important. I want somebody to understand why I did what I did— I need the Director to understand. Maybe then, if she does, this guilt will stop crushing down on my shoulders— or, at least, the weight will lessen.

The Director exhales softly. "I'm sure you can. But first, have a seat."

I don't budge. A moment passes, and she seems to recognize my hesitance.

"I promise there will be no tricks this time. Hecate is outside in the forest, looking for Owen. She won't bother you tonight."

"Hecate doesn't bother me. I just have a general dislike for all dogs."

"Can you have a general dislike for all dogs in one of my chairs?" she asks, a reassuring semblance of her old self in the snappiness of her tone. "Please, Becca. You are not the only person I need to talk to tonight. I'm afraid I don't have time to spare."

I grab a folding chair off the wall and carry it over to her desk. There, I'm instantly reminded of my first meeting with the Director, and how it started exactly like this, with me grudgingly dragging over a chair, and the Director sizing me up from behind a pair of opaque wire-frames. The only thing that's changed is that now I'm not just in trouble for acting out in Sharing Circle. I'm in trouble for almost drowning Finn Murphy.

"You told me you could explain," the Director says, folding her callused hands together. She tilts her chin downwards to level with me. "I have already spoken with Finn—"

My throat goes dry at the sound of his name. "Finn's okay? He's awake?"

"Finn Murphy is fine. He's currently resting in the Med Cabin, trying to sleep off an overwhelming night. Now, I would like to hear your side of things."

I open my mouth to protest— to demand to hear more about Finn— but the Director's expression turns stern, as if she can already hear my complaints. I can sense that this is all the information on Finn she's willing to relinquish— at least, until I give her the explanation she wants— so I force myself to swallow my worry and push my emotions to the side. There will be time to find out how Finn is doing, but now is not that time.

My story lasts for almost half an hour. I tell the Director everything, beginning with Ronan's gut feeling about the monster in the lake, and ending with finding Finn washed on the beach. (I leave out the magic parts, of course. No need for me to get taken in for a psych eval, too.) I describe how Ronan became obsessed with the idea of a monster living in the lake after Clancy met his unfortunate demise, and how he, Finn, and Jasper broke into the Director's cabin to dig up proof.

At this, the Director smiles faintly. "I had an inkling it was those three. Hecate would've scared off anybody else. The only camper she's ever befriended is Finn Murphy... but please, continue your story."

So I do. I tell her about how we convinced Wolseley to reveal the story behind the summer of '69 and how Finn then summoned the kraken, and how Owen saw and was able to formulate his plan. I go on and on, babbling about how Ronan and I stole a motorboat (I lie and say we found the keys in the ignition, because claiming I got them out of a dream would sound too far-fetched), and then I keep going, pushing through the pain and fear of my own memories.

By the time I reach the end of my tale, I'm breathing hard like I just sprinted a mile. Explaining my decision to leave Finn for the sake of the others is physically exhausting, as if every word that comes out of my mouth takes a little bit of me with it. The Director seems to understand this, because she remains silent for almost a minute after I finish, and allows me to collect myself.

When the Director finally speaks, her voice is steady and calm, the exact opposite of the turmoil currently roiling in my gut. She says, "I do not think you made the right decision."

"What?" I say. It sounds more like a pained gasp than a word.

"I said, I do not think you made the right decision by leaving Finn in the lake."

My heart sinks. I feel it crash through the floor, plunging deeper and deeper until it hits bedrock and splinters into a thousand pieces. "I— I don't understand."

"I do not think you made the right decision," the Director repeats, "because I do not believe there was a right decision available to make."

"You— what?"

"It was an impossible choice," the Director continues steadily. "You were faced with the option of abandoning your close friend, or putting the lives of three other people, including yourself, in danger. There is no right answer in a situation like that. In fact, in the study of ethics, I believe that your dilemma is called 'The Trolley Problem'. Scholars have been studying it for ages, and even they haven't found the correct answer to it yet."

Somewhere, under layers of dirt and rock and magma, I feel my heart start to piece itself together again. And then it begins to rise.

"You're saying that it's not my fault?" I whisper.

"I believe that all three of you could've made better decisions along the way. But in the end, Owen is an adult and you are children. In the end, he is the only one we can blame for what happened tonight."

Finally, my heart returns to its hollow in my rib cage, and I feel my chest swell with the fullness of the moment. "You really think so?"

"Owen is extraordinarily intelligent and motivated by both anger and grief. That is a dangerous combination. I also have reason to believe that he was being backed by a name I haven't heard in years. The police found a duffel bag of money hidden under the mattress in his cabin." The Director sighs deeply. In a matter of seconds, she seems to age another ten years. "What I'm trying to say is, Owen wasn't working alone. He had help. Powerful help. The three of you did your best against him, and that's all anyone could've asked for. I am not going to punish you, Becca, for doing what you thought was right under extreme circumstances. It is my job to keep the campers at Lightlake safe. I failed that job today. I promised myself that I would never let another Hatch come to Lightlake... and I failed."

The Director's words seem a little too harsh— after all, if Owen really was backed by someone rich enough to provide a bag full of money, he must've had a solid false identity and the paperwork to prove it. I've known Ronan for long enough to grasp the concept of what real wealth can do— which is why I'm sure the Director's simple background checks never would have stood a chance against a cash supply like that.

"It's not your fault that you didn't catch Owen's lie," I tell her. "He had years to perfect his plan of infiltrating Lightlake. This camp didn't stand a chance."

"That's where you're wrong. I should've known that Owen wasn't really Owen, and I should've caught his deception long before tonight."

"How? He's an incredible liar. He never gave anybody reason to suspect otherwise."

"Becca," the Director says softly, "Haven't you ever wondered why I wear this glasses?"

I shake my head at her in confusion. "I thought we were talking about Owen."

"We are. But first, answer my question."

"Well, no. I never wondered. I thought you were just really sensitive to sunlight. Or you didn't like making eye contact with people." The sound of my half-assed excuses makes me want to cringe, but it's better than voicing the real reason I never questioned the Director's choice of accessories: I was always too afraid to look her directly in the eyes. The sunglasses always seemed like protection from her, not for her.

"I'm afraid we're more alike than you think," she says, with the faintest hint of amused irony. "You of all people should know better. Why do you think I choose to build this camp on a lake inhabited by the kraken?"

She reaches up to remove her glasses. Two almond-shaped eyes, one blue, one green, gaze back at me.

And suddenly, it all makes sense.

It all makes sense.

"Magic calls to magic," the Director says. "And the kraken called to me."