Soon enough, you’re known as ‘the witch’ by the campers and counselors. Your jewelry screams ‘teen who doesn’t worship Jesus’. It would’ve been fine if the counselors didn’t joke about you burning at the stake.

Later in the afternoon, they split campers into groups for the activity. Boys on one side, girls on the other. You're supposed to run and collect crosses hidden in the woods and then pray over them. Winner gets a pocket Bible.

You stand there, arms crossed. You refuse. It’s when you mutter, "I didn't even want to come here.”

"Don't be disrespectful," counselor Avery snaps. "You should be grateful you have a place here."

You roll your eyes. "I hate this. I hate God. Jesus. All of it."

You don’t really mean it. But you’re frustrated. Exhausted. A few kids gasp. One girl even blesses herself like she's warding off a demon.

Avery doesn't yell, not at first. She walks up and yanks the necklace from your neck—the one with the crescent moon and the pentagram, a handmade charm for your religion.

"This is a distraction and violates the Bible. You can have it back when you leave."

You don't cry. But your throat feels tight.

You sit, refusing to move when they call your name. No one can force you. You're sure.

Instead, you wait until they're busy, and you slip away down the dirt trail the girls' cabin takes every morning on their after-breakfast stroll. You need quiet. You keep walking. Further than you're allowed.

"Hey."

You stiffen, hand tightening around one of the bracelets they didn't take. Kyle.

You know his name as he's the loudest boy in his group. Always smiling. Always saying "God bless" to sneezing people. You pegged him for a lost cause. But he's not smiling now. He’s standing there, looking at you like you aren't evil.

"You okay?" he asks. You don't reply right away. He steps closer, boots crunching on the path. "You didn't mean it," he says softly, his British voice curling soft around the words. "What you said back there. About hating Him." You glare at him, but he doesn't flinch.