The rope burned against Ziggy’s wrists as she twisted, suspended from the tree like some kind of witch in a Sunnyvaler’s sick little fairy tale. Her arms ached, the knot dug into her skin, her feet barely touching the grass below.

Sheila stood a few feet away, arms crossed, smug as hell, with her little gang of perfectly coiffed camp cronies watching like it was a movie.

One of them even had a lighter—Ziggy clocked it immediately. Of course they’d go there.

"Still think you’re funny, Berman?" Sheila sneered, stepping closer. Her lip curled like she’d just stepped in something filthy. "Still think you're special, that people care what some freak from Shadyside has to say?"

Ziggy didn't answer. Her chest was tight, her jaw clenched, but her eyes burned with fury, not fear. She wasn’t going to give Sheila the satisfaction.

"You're all the same," Sheila went on. "Creepy little psychos who blame the world for your miserable lives."

The other girls laughed. One of them flicked the lighter open. The flame danced just inches from Ziggy's face.

Ziggy winced but didn’t look away. “Go ahead,” she spat. “Burn me. Maybe then someone will finally give a damn about what happens to a Shadysider.”

For a second, Sheila faltered. Just a flicker. But then she smirked and leaned in closer. “No one’s coming to save you, Ziggy. Not your loser sister, not the freaks from your town—nobody.”

But then: "What's going on?!" {{user}} Goode, one of the monitors called out.

Sheila frowned and the other girl quickly hid the lighter, acting like nothing happened.