“Philip DiGiacomo,” she said, naming the boy who was widely considered the cutest.

“Aw, that’s not fair,” said Walter. “Who do you like at this camp.”

“Too late,” said Tracy, happily. “Your turn. Truth or dare.”

“Dare,” said Walter.

Tracy thought for a moment. She wanted her dare to be creative, to be funny. She wanted to make the others laugh.

“All right,” she said. “Walter: I dare you to walk up to T.J.’s tent and make bear noises outside it.”

The boys fell into quiet laughter. Next to her, she could feel Barbara’s head turn swiftly in her direction.

“That’s not a good idea,” said Barbara.

“Why not?” said Lowell. “That’s hilarious.”

From Barbara: a long measured pause. And then: “She’s got a gun.”

The other three fell silent.

“She almost definitely has a gun,” said Barbara.

“For what?” said Lowell.

“For exactly that reason,” said Barbara. “For bears and things.”

“Or for Slitter,” said Walter.

There was a long pause.

“Do you think that’s why they sent the counselors along with us this year?” said Walter. “Because he’s on the loose?”

“No,” said Barbara. “I think it’s just because so many parents complained. T.J. says this generation is different from earlier ones. She says the parents are just more scared.”

More silence as the four of them considered this. Tracy didn’t think her own parents would be scared. But when she remembered the mothers of the other girls—in their patterned wrap dresses, their Weejuns—she believed that they would be.

“Well,” said Walter. “Not doing that. Any other ideas?”

Tracy racked her brain. She thought of having him finish off the flask—but she wanted more. She thought of having him kiss one of the others, or strip down and streak around the campsite, but she was worried about the precedent this would set—being terrified, herself, of being asked to remove any article of clothing whatsoever—and so instead she said, “I dare you to tell us Lowell’s biggest secret.”

She could not see anyone’s face well, but she could tell Walter was thinking about how to respond.

“That’s easy,” he said, finally. “When he’s at home, he sleeps with the light on because he’s scared of the dark.”

He turned to Lowell. “But don’t worry, pal,” he said. “I’ll protect you.”

Tracy understood two things immediately: that this was not Lowell’s biggest secret; and that Walter would be loyal to him at all costs. Her heart sank. She had not meant to be unkind.

•   •   •

Thirty minutes passed. An hour. All of them were tipsy and warmer than they had been. Tracy’s good mood had been restored by the intimacies they had swapped: after running out of acceptable dares, they turned instead to truths, and in the small amount of time that had passed had learned more about each other than they had all summer. It was wonderful, thought Tracy, having friends like these, who seemed to see the parts of yourself you worked hardest to hide, and bring them into the light and celebrate them with a sort of tender ribbing that uplifted more than it put down. Lowell, she had learned, really was afraid of the dark; Lowell, despite his physical gifts, hated sports, to the horror of his football-playing father; Walter was terrible in school, had something called dyslexia, had a father who’d gone to Harvard and expected nothing less. She, Tracy, had disclosed how few friends she had at home, how the girls she went to middle school with were nothing like her; how her father had left her mother for Donna Romano, a cocktail waitress at the Adelphi Hotel; how her mother had become quieter, less boisterous in the wake of this event.

Each time a truth was told, they cheersed, they drank. They took turns stoking the fire when it got low.

The only person who seemed at all reserved was Barbara. She laughed quietly with them; she was engaged; but when it came time for her to tell her truths, Tracy sensed that they were censored.

It was so freeing, thought Tracy, to trade intimacies with friends in this way; she felt almost bad for Barbara that she was having a different experience. And so, when it came time for Tracy to participate, she chose Barbara. And Barbara chose truth.

Unswervingly, Tracy asked the question she’d been wondering all summer.

“Who’s your boyfriend?”

Silence.

In the background, the fire popped loudly, and Tracy jumped.

“The truth is,” said Barbara, finally, “that I can’t tell you the truth.”

In her voice there was anger: whether it was directed at her, or at the boyfriend, or at the world, Tracy wasn’t sure.

Barbara grabbed the flask from Walter and tipped it vertical. She finished it.

Then she said, “Lowell. Truth or dare.”

Lowell thought. Opted at last for a dare.

“I dare you to kiss me,” said Barbara.

At the base of her neck, Tracy felt a cold sensation that she recognized as fear.

In the dim light from the fire, she could see Lowell’s broad shoulders, his forearms crossed one over the other on top of his tucked-up legs. He took one arm down and then the other, and then, with purpose, he got up onto his knees and leaned toward Barbara. He put his hands on either side of her face, and then he put his face toward hers and kissed her, and Tracy understood immediately that he had kissed many girls before; and that this was not a perfunctory, command-following kiss. This was instead a kiss with feeling, with desire. She wanted to turn away; she didn’t. This was her punishment, Tracy thought, for letting down her guard. She deserved it. She took it.

•   •   •

Walter made a little Oooh sound when the kiss ended, but that was all.

Then Barbara said she was tired, and Lowell agreed, and the four of them split up abruptly: the boys to tend the fire one last time; the girls in the direction of their tent.

Inside, Tracy was cold again. She shook. She turned onto her side, tucked her knees up into her sweatshirt, lay there curled up like a baby.

After a beat, she felt Barbara move closer to her, and then Barbara put her arms around Tracy’s side, hugging her from behind.

“Don’t,” said Tracy.

“I’m sorry,” said Barbara. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m sorry, Tracy.”

She didn’t want to cry, but suddenly she was crying. It was out of shame more than anger: shame for ever thinking someone like Lowell Cargill might possibly be interested in her.