The car passes me, and my shoulders slump forward.
Motherfucker.
I turn on my heels and start walking back to the gas station. It’s notsafe out here. I’ll need to find somewhere to hide until morning, when the old man returns. Then I’ll worry about catching a ride to Washington. But as I take one final look at the road, I notice the car gliding to a stop.
I wait for the driver to change his mind, but the car remains stationary, smoke puffing out of its exhaust pipe.
I race toward it as fast as I can.
8NICOLA
IT’S LATE AFTERNOONwhen we reach the bridge. “You might want to look away if you’re afraid of heights,” Zach warns. As we pass the first balusters, I understand why. Below, far below, water crashes through the gorge like a rabid hound straining on its chain—white-capped teeth foaming and snapping at the rocks. The metal rails are close enough to scrape deep gouges in the bus’s side if the driver tilts the steering wheel even a fraction of an inch. I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until we reach the other side, when my lungs release.
Zach chuckles. “I know. Every year, I find myself imagining theseFinal Destinationscenarios: bus plows through railing, cement cracks under the weight, whatever. And we all end up plummeting to our deaths.” The bus pulls back into the woods, pine trees swallowing the sun overhead. “Not the way anyone wants to go.”
We veer onto a pockmarked dirt road, rattling toward a massive lodge in the distance. “Here we are,” Connor says, rising from his seat and gripping the headrest. “Your home for the next three days.” The driver shifts into park, and the doors fold open. The air feels cooler here, the heavy scent of pine making my sinuses tingle. Kemy steps off first, then Ros and Hannah.
As I yank my luggage from the overhead compartment, the sound of excited shrieking snaps my attention to the windows. I expect to find Greer, but instead, a middle-aged woman wearing a loose-fitting macramé sweater is wrapping her arms around Kemy. She catches sight of me through the window and smiles, her teeth slightly too big for her mouth. Tamping down my disappointment, I shuffle along the aisle, passing Connor on the way. “Pickup is on Monday at seven o’clock,” he says to the driver. “In the morning.”
I linger in the doorway, taking in the lodge. The siding, railings, and window frames have all been carved from the same dark, hand-hewn timber. A sharply arched portico frames the front door; a steep staircase leads to a raised porch. Off to the side is a stump with an axe lodged in it, its handle curving down to a red blade. I wonder how they found this place—so far off the beaten path. Airbnb maybe. Vrbo.
“You must be Nicola,” the woman calls, sweeping across the yard, the hem of her skirt dragging on the ground. She opens her arms as if to embrace me, then seems to reconsider, clumsily offering a handshake instead. “Imogen. I’ll be running some of the workshops this weekend. I’m also a licensed social worker, so if there’s anything you want to talk about, anything at all, my door’s always open. I know how hard this can be.” Her gaze shifts over my shoulder to Zach, who’s looking distinctly unimpressed. “That goes for you, too.”
“Thanks. I’ll let you know if I need a spiritual cleansing.”
Her smile tightens, but she simply says, “We’re so happy you’re here, Nicola,” before moving toward the luggage compartment under the bus.
Connor strides up to the front door and turns a key in the lock, nudging it open. “Your names are on the doors: Imogen on the main floor; Hannah, Ros, and Kemy on the lower level.”
“You mean the basement,” Ros says.
“We needed to put someone down there, Ros.” She clicks her tongue, but Connor moves on. “Zach and Nicola on the second floor. Find your rooms and get settled in.”
“Bonfire ceremony starts in an hour!” Imogen calls from where she’s unloading rolled-up yoga mats.
We trample onto the porch, where pine-carved benches with shabby throw pillows look out onto the front yard, then into the lodge itself. From the exterior, I was expecting something spacious, upmarket, but instead, the leather couches and armchairs are faded from years of use. Black-and-white photographs of pinecones (none of them any good) ladder the walls, while boxy windows let in dim bands of sunlight. The overall effect is unexpectedly claustrophobic.
Zach and I scale the stairs to the second floor. My room is the first off the landing. A sign has been taped to my door, my name inked on top of a smear of sorbet watercolors. I assume Zach will be in the next room, but instead, he walks to the end of the hallway, opens the door, and disappears.
I wander to the door next to mine and stare at the sign:
GREER
Oh god, she really is coming this weekend. It’s only a matter of time before the two of us are alone together, and then what will I say? What will I do? A loud clank, followed by a watery hiss, makes me jump. Is she in there already? I shift closer, press my cheek against the door, and listen for any sounds coming from inside—the sliding of drawers, the tapping of footsteps.
“She’s not here.”
I jerk backward. Connor stands at the top of the staircase.
“Oh. Do you know when shewillbe?”
He crosses the landing and opens my door. “Let’s talk inside.”
The room is small and spartan. A bed occupies the entirety ofone wall. Against the opposite, a desk stands under a narrow window. Connor takes the chair, leaving me to settle awkwardly on the edge of the mattress. The starched linens crinkle; the scent of fresh bleach blooms in the air.
“We don’t know if she’s coming this weekend,” he says. “We set aside a room just in case.”
“But she gave you her phone. Why would she do that if she didn’t plan on coming?”
