The camp is asleep. Or it should be. Under the mess hall steps, the night smells like pine and summer dust. A flashlight rests between you and Mirabel, its beam catching the edges of a scripture schedule neither of you is actually reading. Your shoulders are almost touching. You keep telling yourself that's just because the space is small. Somewhere above, the camp director's cabin light is still on. The counselor's bunk is suspiciously quiet. And Mirabel just turned to say something, her voice low, her eyes softer than a schedule review has any right to make them. You believed in every rule that brought you here. You still do. Mostly. So why does this feel like the realest thing about this whole summer?