The bus rattled along the winding dirt road, its rusted frame groaning with every bump. The air inside was thick with tension, a mix of sweat, cigarette smoke clinging to clothes, and the lingering scent of whatever had been spilled on the seats years ago. No one spoke. Some glared out the grimy windows, watching the towering trees swallow the last signs of civilization. Others sat hunched over, arms crossed, waiting for the inevitable.

The driver, a silent man with a cigarette hanging from his lips, kept his eyes on the road, never acknowledging the teens behind him. The only sound was the hum of the engine, the occasional sniffle, and the rhythmic thud of someone tapping their foot against the metal floor.

A few seats back, someone carved into the seat with a pocketknife—until a counselor snapped at them, yanking the blade away. “Try that again, and you’re walking.” The offender just smirked, leaning back, unfazed.

Outside, the forest grew denser, the sun barely piercing through the canopy. The road narrowed. No turning back now.

Then, the sign appeared—CAMP BLACK PINES—the paint chipped, the wood warped with age. As the bus lurched to a stop, the driver took one last drag of his cigarette, exhaled, and muttered, “Welcome to hell, kids.”