A minute later we’re back in the foyer, me watching as Charlie presses his formidable stomach against the floor. In his hand is a penshaped magnet stick, the end of which he lowers through the grate.
“I’m so sorry for this,” I say.
Charlie wiggles the stick. “Happens all the time. These grates are notorious. I think of them as monsters. They’ll eat up anything that comes their way.”
The comparison is apt. The longer I look at the heating vent, the more it resembles a dark maw just waiting to be fed.
There’s a new normal at Camp Sweetwater, and that normal is normal.
Ghost don’t appear in our bonfires now, screaming for justice. All the lifeguards at the lake are actually alive. There are no cryptic French whispers at night. And extremely important: shower curtains, towels, razors, and blackened wood just sit there, not doing anything.
Corryn Quinn, my best friend, and I made sure of that.