“Then what?” said Tracy.

“Then I wouldn’t have been born,” said Barbara. “That would have been better, I think.”

They were quiet for a long time.

An adult, Tracy knew, would have registered alarm, would have protested that life was worth living. But Tracy, at nearly thirteen, read the statement not as a cry for help, but as a statement of fact. And so she said nothing, and the two of them breathed together for a long time, until each one thought the other had fallen asleep.

Suddenly, Barbara spoke again.

“What time do you think it is?”

Tracy held up her watch, angling it so that it caught the light from the fire.

“Midnight,” she said.

“Shit,” Barbara whispered.

“What?”

“I have to go.”

She sat up abruptly.

Beside her, Tracy sat up as well.

“Go?” she said.

Barbara was rummaging in her backpack, feeling inside it.

“Where are you going?” Tracy asked.

“Same place I go every night.”

She pulled out a small flashlight.

“Where did you get that?”

“I brought it with me from Balsam.”

“But how will you know where you’re going?” asked Tracy, incredulously.

But Barbara scoffed.

“Don’t worry about me,” she said. “I know every inch of these woods.”

And then she set off, past the fire, heading downhill. Tracy watched until she could see only the beam from the flashlight. Until even that was gone.

Tracy

1950s | 1961 | Winter 1973 | June 1975 | July 1975 | August 1975

Tracy slept fitfully, woken by cold and sometimes by the sound of one of the other campers tending the fire.

At some point, she opened her eyes to find that it was light out, and that she was still alone in the tent.

Tracy sat up quickly, afraid now. Everyone else was still sleeping. She tiptoed to Lowell and Walter’s tent, and leaned down next to Lowell, whispering his name until he opened one eye.

“Barbara’s not here,” she said. “She’s gone.”

Lowell blinked in the sunlight, rubbed his eyes, stretched.

“What are you talking about?” said Lowell. “I just saw her. She was getting more wood.”

Sure enough: from behind a little copse of trees came Barbara, arms full of branches, gathering kindling to fuel their morning fire.

She grinned at Tracy. Good morning, she mouthed.

•   •   •

Their plan for the day was to set up simple squirrel poles, which T.J. had taught them to do in their outdoorsmanship classes. Barbara, of course, oversaw.

By evening, the squirrel traps were empty of both bait and squirrels. Someone had found a small patch of berries, but the walk to retrieve them had no doubt cost more energy than the berries themselves would provide.

The mood had changed. With nothing to do, they waited for dinner, for the small portions of canned beans and gorp that Barbara had reserved for the night’s meal. The younger campers were complaining of hunger; the older ones were annoyed.

Barbara, determined, set off one more time into the woods to check the traps. And in a moment, they heard a yell.

Tracy stood up. Across the campsite, she could see Lowell standing too. And then he took off in a run toward Barbara’s voice.

The two of them emerged a minute later, grinning, shouldering two of the squirrel poles between them. From the poles hung the corpses of three red squirrels, swinging as they walked. One of them, Tracy saw in horror, was still twitching and scrabbling.

“Barbara!” she cried out. “Barbara, one’s alive!”

Barbara nodded.

“Grab a rock,” she said.

“Me?” Tracy said.

“Yes, you.”

Tracy looked around the campsite. She quickly spotted a solid-looking one, and held it up over her head for Barbara’s inspection.

“Good,” said Barbara. “Now take off one of your socks and put the rock inside it.”

Tracy felt her stomach lurch.

“Do it,” said Barbara. “Come on, Tracy. If I have to put the pole down he’ll get away.”