The next time they caught sight of Barbara, she was being led by Louise toward the little beach that bordered Lake Joan, where the residents of several cabins, including Tracy’s, were waiting to take their swim tests. Out of the clothes she’d arrived in, Barbara looked younger.

A long metal dock, T-shaped and warmed by the sun, jutted out from the beach. The swimming instructor, a tall blond Atlas named Mitchell, led the first cabin out to the end of it.

“On my count,” said Mitchell. And then, on three, the younger campers from Spruce plunged into the water, shrieking when they surfaced.

“Rule number one,” said Mitchell. “No screaming unless you’re in danger.”

•   •   •

Tracy stood at the edge of the group, uncomfortable in her bathing suit, a towel wrapped tightly around her waist. She had been at camp less than twenty-four hours, but it had not escaped her that the other campers in Balsam—consciously or not—habitually placed some physical distance between themselves and her.

Barbara and Louise, by that point, had reached the end of the dock.

“Mitch,” said Louise, and then she said it again, louder. “Can I interrupt for a second?”

Everyone turned to look.

“This is Barbara,” said Louise. “She’ll be with us in Balsam this session.”

Louise gestured in the direction of Tracy’s group. “Those girls over there are your cabinmates. Wave, Balsam.”

Dutifully, they did. Barbara held up a hand, and then wove her way through the campers, inserting herself precisely into the gap next to Tracy. She gazed straight ahead, then, toward the lake—pretending, apparently, that she was not the focal point of everyone nearby.

In her peripheral vision, Tracy could see Barbara wasn’t—pretty, exactly—but there was something appealing about her, something confident and mature. She stood with her hands on her hips, feet slightly apart, very still, her posture upright. She didn’t fidget or slouch. It made Tracy straighten.

Before she could look away, Barbara turned her head sharply in Tracy’s direction, meeting her gaze. But it wasn’t annoyance that registered on her face, or disgust. No: in the split second they locked eyes, Barbara looked unmistakably amused.

“Balsam,” said Mitchell. “You ready?”

Tracy removed the towel around her waist with reluctance.

On Mitchell’s count, the group of them plunged in.

Their task was to swim to a buoy fifty yards away and then turn back. As they swam, Mitchell watched them, assessing their form and speed, making notes.

Tracy was a decent swimmer: years of lessons at the Y made her so. Had she pushed herself to her limit, she might have been toward the front. But she would not have been first. That title belonged to Barbara, who swam so gracefully and fast that she was out, and toweling off, before the second-place finisher touched the dock.

“Hey, speed racer,” said Mitchell, impressed.

Barbara said nothing in response. She dried herself, all business. Slicked back the hair and bangs that clung to the sides of her face.

•   •   •

At lunch, Tracy placed herself at the end of the table, as she had done for each of the meals she had taken at Camp Emerson so far. And as usual, the rest of the girls clustered together, away from her. But a moment later, to Tracy’s surprise, Barbara Van Laar deposited her tray directly across from her, and sat down. Immediately, the table’s attention shifted.

Barbara was wearing her red lipstick again—either she’d smuggled it in, or special exceptions were being made for her already—and her bright mouth as she bit into and chewed her food functioned, to Tracy’s eyes, something like a fishing lure.

“What?” asked Barbara—the first word Tracy had heard her speak. Her voice was low, quiet; behind it there was the same note of amusement Tracy had noticed in her earlier gaze.

“I like your—” Tracy said, and then she closed her mouth. Don’t be weird, she instructed herself.

“My what?” asked Barbara.

Tracy hesitated.

“My lipstick? Borrow it,” said Barbara.

“Are we allowed?”

“Are we not allowed?” said Barbara.

Tracy considered this. “I think we’re only allowed to put it on for dances,” she said. “That’s what they told us at orientation.”

Barbara shrugged. “I wasn’t at orientation,” she said. “If someone wants to say something to me, they can.”

“Why did you miss it?” Tracy asked her.

“My parents,” said Barbara. “They forgot to sign me up for camp.”

Tracy nodded. This she could relate to: the feeling of being forgotten. To her right, she could sense the rest of Balsam leaning toward them, straining to catch what they were saying.

•   •   •

That—their second full day of camp—marked the start of what would become their normal routine.

Each day, they woke at 6:30, to the reveille played over the speakers.

They showered.

At seven, they made their way to the commissary for breakfast; at 8:30 they gathered by the flagpole for flag-raising and opening assembly.

After that they had swim lessons, and first elective, and lunch, and second elective, and free period, and dinner, and, usually, some scheduled evening program.

Twice a week, in place of one of their electives, they had Survival Classes, led by T.J. Hewitt herself. In them they learned to build shelters, forage for food, and build spears with which to fish. They learned how to find or make potable water, and how to build traps for small animals, which they also learned to skin and cook.

These classes were the heart of Camp Emerson: the reason it had been founded in the first place, the campers were told. They were also important training for a tradition that occurred toward the end of each summer—the one for which Camp Emerson was most famous.

The original name of the tradition was the Solo Trip. In the earliest years of Camp Emerson, when Peter Van Laar I still reigned from the house at the top of the hill, all campers were sent into the woods alone for three nights with nothing but their wits to keep them alive. No camper had ever died, but stories of parched and emaciated children staggering out of the woods had been passed down through the decades. By the time of Tracy’s tenure at Camp Emerson, the Solo Trip had become the Survival Trip. Thanks to the intervention of a new generation of concerned parents, campers were now sent off in small groups. And this year, as T.J. had explained, those small groups would be chaperoned by a counselor.

For these classes, campers were divided not by cabin but by Survival Group—each of which consisted of approximately twelve campers. Groups were carefully constructed to include no more than two campers from any cabin or age group, designed to allow older campers to mentor younger ones.

•   •   •

Tracy’s Survival Group met, for the first time, on her fourth day at camp. They’d been told to meet at the flagpole, where T.J. Hewitt would be waiting for them. And there she was, when they arrived: silent and fierce-looking, uninclined to make small talk of any kind.

Tracy was pleasantly surprised to find that her group included Barbara Van Laar, who nodded to her when their eyes met, but otherwise stood as silently as their instructor.

The last person to arrive was a boy—fourteen, perhaps. One of the oldest campers on the grounds. Immediately, Tracy reddened. This, she thought, was the most beautiful person she had ever seen in her life.