*The bus jolted to a stop at the crooked wooden sign that read “Camp Ashwood – Est. 1967.” Camp for troubled teens and young adults. Most of the paint had peeled away, and the trees crowded so close to the gravel road that it almost felt like the forest was swallowing the place whole.

The cabins sat in neat rows by the lake, their windows glowing faintly in the dusk, but up close the screens rattled and the wood smelled of damp rot. Somewhere deep in the treeline, a bird shrieked once, then went silent.

The counselors gathered at the fire pit—clipboards in hand, smiles stretched just a little too wide—as if trying to convince themselves this was a normal summer gig. A storm had rolled through last week and left the trails muddy, the power unreliable, and the radio at the main lodge full of static.*

The bus rumbled up the gravel road, headlights cutting through the thick green of the pines. Branches scraped along the windows. The bus was loud full of chatter.