Chapter 1

The morning I left for camp, the sky outside my bedroom window was overcast�"thick clouds hanging low like someone forgot to lift the curtain on the day. I stood beside my suitcase, still half-empty, and stared at the neatly folded stacks of clothes lined up on the floor: T-shirts, polos, art supplies, my sketchbook.

My sketchbook went in first.

I hesitated before zipping the bag, flipping open the cover one last time. The pages smelled faintly like graphite and sleep. Each sketch felt like a moment bottled up�"my dog curled in the sun, my mom before she left, a quiet street at dawn. Little proof that I was still here, still feeling things, even if I couldn’t say them out loud.

“Elliot,” my dad’s voice called from downstairs, sharp and impatient. “Let’s go. Don’t want to be late.”

He hadn’t even looked at the camp brochure. He didn’t ask if I wanted to go. Just handed it to me one evening with a clip, “It’ll be good for you.”

Good for me.

As if shoving me into a forest with a bunch of strangers would undo the awkwardness in my bones.

I zipped the bag shut and slung it over my shoulder. My room looked different suddenly. Like it didn’t belong to me anymore. Like I’d already left.

At the front door, my dad was scrolling through his phone, keys in hand. He didn’t look up when I stepped beside him.

“I put extra sunscreen in the side pocket,” he muttered.

“Okay.”

“Don’t lose your sketchbook.”

“I won’t.”

That was it. No hug. No fun. Just silence and the click of the car locked as he headed for the driveway.

I followed him without a word.

The car ride was long and too quiet. I watched the trees blur past the window, each one pulling me further away from everything familiar. I thought about turning back. About asking him to let me stay home. But I didn’t.

I knew what he’d say. Don’t be dramatic. You’ll be fine. You need this.

Maybe I did. Maybe part of me hoped the campfire stories were true�"that people met at camp, and something changed. Maybe I wanted that, even if I wouldn’t admit it out loud.

As we pulled up the gravel drive and the wooden CAMP BLACKWATER sign came into view, I felt the ache bloom in my chest. A familiar one. The kind that whispers, You don’t belong here.

Kids were already spilling out of cars, hugging friends, laughing like it was a reunion.

I stepped out slowly, gripping the strap of my bag like a lifeline.

I didn’t know anyone.

Correction: I knew of someone. Leo Santiago. We’d gone to the same school for years, but he existed in a different orbit. Loud. Confidence. Impossible to ignore.

The kind of guy who’d make camp either better or unbearable.

Probably the second one.

A counselor waved me over and handed me a cabin assignment�"Cabin 12. High school group.

Only one other name on the list.

Leo Santiago.

Of course.

I took a deep breath, clutched my sketchbook tighter, and started walking toward the woods.