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That night, 2:03 a.m.

Wind whirls through the camp, thick with salt off the ocean and mist from the rain that has recently abated. It batters the tents, rattles the metal food lockers, rustles the ryegrass and the brome. It wakes a sleeping mother.

Sofía reaches over to the sleeping bag beside hers to make sure her son isn’t scared. The island is darker than the city ever gets, darker than the inside of her eyelids. At home, her son sleeps with a night-light despite being too old for one. Her hand brushes the satiny fabric, then pats harder. There’s no body beneath.

She bolts up.

“Javi?” Her fingers fumble along the seam of the tent, touching the thin nylon walls, the inflatable pillows, the cold floor, remarkably dry considering the recent downpour, until she finds the LED lantern lying on its side. Sofía pulls up the top of the lamp, her worst fears illuminated in unnatural, blue-hued light. She is alone in the tent. Javi is gone.

The tent door thrashes and falls closed as she unzips it. She fights the thin fabric made strong by the wind. Outside, the coldness hits her like a slap. The hills surrounding the campground have been swallowed by the black hole of the night. Although she can’t see it even in outline, she knows the Berg-Zhaos’ tent is only a few feet away. She charges toward it. At its threshold, she doesn’t hesitate before bending down to open the door.

“Javi,” she whispers as she surveys the tent. She counts four sleeping bags, two of which are empty. Of the two with bodies inside, one is large—an adult. The other, so small, the person practically disappears beneath the pillowy fabric. Sofía leans forward. It’s Kai. Lei isn’t in his tent either.

The larger figure sniffles, and she realizes it’s Charles.

“Charles,” she barks. He murmurs, stirs, remains supine. She pokes his foot. More murmurs. More stirs. “Charles.”

“Jesus, Ray, I’m asleep,” he says, determined to remain that way. She keeps prodding him until he sits up, hair askew, trying to understand the scene before him. “Sofía? What time is it?”

“Have you seen Javi? Lei? Where’s Raymond?”

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“The boys are missing,” Sofía says.

“What?” He’s not ready to believe her, even as he stares at Lei’s pancake-flat sleeping bag.

“Are they with Raymond?” she asks.

“Maybe? He never came . . . he’s not . . . he probably stayed with his guys by the kitchen.”

Sofía bolts up, catches a smooth patch of air between gusts, and sprints in what she hopes is the direction of the tables the cooks have assembled as the camp kitchen. Through the dense black that surrounds her, it’s impossible to tell which way she’s headed. This makes her more terrified for the boys. They would have immediately gotten lost. Even if they were with Raymond. She hopes they’re with Raymond, that they are not alone in this darkness.

Ahead, in the glow of her lantern, she sees the L-shaped outdoor kitchen. She spins in a circle, searching for the triangle of the cooks’ tent. In the distance, she sees a light. Charles. He hasn’t kept up.

She darts back to his tent, heaves the door open again to find Charles sitting dumbfounded in the center, Kai sleeping peacefully at his side.

“Charles,” she hisses. “Get it together.”

“Okay.” He nods to himself. “Okay. Okay.” He pats around his sleeping bag until he finds a headlamp. When he straps it onto his head and twists it on, the light momentarily blinds Sofía. “Sorry.”

“Let’s go.”

Charles kisses Kai’s cheek and whispers to the sleeping boy that he’ll be right outside. Then he crawls out. Charles and Sofía huddle together as the wind slashes sideways at them, fighting their way to the cooks’ tent, where the fabric walls undulate like a flag. Pegs have sprung from the ground. Wishing to be airborne, the tent’s corners flap, held down by the bodies inside.

At the door of the cooks’ tent, Charles pokes his head inside. Sofía watches from behind his shoulder as the two men lie motionless in their sleeping bags. Ray isn’t here. The boys aren’t here either.

“Stefan,” Charles calls. Not even a flinch. “Stef.” He jabs the man’s toe, and Stefan, half asleep, growls at someone to leave him alone.

“Stefan,” he says again, and this time the cook bolts up, frantically searching left to right, like he has no idea where he is.

“Is it prep time?” he asks Charles, turning on the headlamp fastened to the ceiling. He locates a bandanna, ties it around his forehead, and nudges his sleeping friend.

“Have you seen Ray?” Sofía asks.

“Is he pissed?” Stefan pokes the other man harder. “Ev, get up, dude. It’s go time.”

Evan bounds up, muttering “Ray’s gonna flip.”