Starry Eyes

Summer glances around. “What do we do? Should we go back?”

“To the place that’s filled with people who saw us run?” Lennon says. “Yes, let’s return to the scene of the crime.”

“I don’t know!” Summer says, eyes bright with panic. “Maybe we can hide until this Mr. Randall dude passes us?”

I gesture toward the yurts. “He’s not the only roadblock. Look at all the tents. People are walking around.”

“Guests are returning from the bonfire too,” Lennon says, glancing behind us, where laugher and chatter carry from a short distance.

“We’re trapped,” Summer moans. “This sucks so hard. My legs are covered in wine splatter, and now we’re going to jail.”

“Or we could stash the bottles somewhere,” Lennon says calmly. “And, you know, maybe not go to jail. But your plan works too.”

Kendrick points to a waste disposal box. It’s a metal bear-resistant one, cemented to the ground, with a funny latch. “I doubt they’d clean these out tonight. We can stash the wine inside now and come back later, when people are sleeping.”

“My boys!” Brett praises, helping Kendrick unlatch the garbage bin. “Pure genius. Lennon, I was thinking you failed me back at the bar when you weren’t there to watch my back, but your position as wingman is now restored.”

“All my dreams are realized,” Lennon says, voice thick with sarcasm.

While Reagan fusses about stashing the bottles near food scraps, they manage to clear out a space inside the bin for a dozen bottles. The last one doesn’t fit, so Brett sticks it inside his pants. Crude jokes are made. I ignore them, mainly because I’m watching the ranger.

“Guys,” I say. “Shut the bin. He’s coming this way.”

I don’t think he can see us all that well, but then again, I can see him. And when Lennon points out that we look obvious, hanging out by the garbage bin, we leave it and begin walking down the path. Calmly. Slowly. No getting around the ranger. I steel myself as we approach him.

“Evenin’,” Mr. Randall says, giving us all a once-over. “You kids lost?”

“No, sir,” Brett assures him. “Just heading back to our camp.”

“Which is . . . ?”

“Camp Owl,” Reagan says.

He squints at her. “You look familiar.”

“My parents stay here a lot,” she says.

“If that’s true, then I don’t need to remind you that quiet hours will be starting soon. Plan accordingly.”

“Thank you,” Reagan says.

Mr. Randall nods, stepping aside to let us pass. I’m not sure if it’s my imagination, but he seems to sniff the air. So now I’m paranoid that he smells wine on us. I mean, we did trample a broken bottle into the ground.

But if he suspects anything, he doesn’t stop us. And after I sneak a glance back at him, I breathe out a sigh of relief when he passes the garbage bin and continues up the hill toward the lodge.

“I think we’re in the clear,” I tell the group as we make our way down the dark path through the yurt camp.

“Lucky us,” Lennon says without conviction.

For once, I don’t disagree with him.

10

* * *

Turns out that “quiet hours” really do mean quiet. Even though the tent cabins in Camp Owl are spread apart, when it’s pitch-black outside and the usual white noise of city life—traffic, air conditioners, TV—is replaced by crickets, you can hear everything.

And I do mean e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g.

The flush of toilets. Distant laughter. The crunch of gravel as a stranger walks. Even the smallest noise is amplified. So when all six of us converge in the girls’ tent cabin to talk about how we are going to retrieve the hidden wine, it isn’t long before we decide that Brett and Lennon will get up early and cart the wine back in their packs. Actually, Brett volunteers Lennon, and Lennon just says drily, “I’ve always dreamed of being a rumrunner.”

The boys retreat to their tent, and we get ready for bed. It’s been a while since I’ve slept in a bunk bed—and never since I slept in a tent. But after logging the events of the day in my minijournal and a couple of hours spent lying wide-awake in bed, cataloging all the nocturnal noises in camp, I manage to fall into a restless and unsettled sleep, waking periodically.

When dawn pushes away the darkness, I give up on sleep and climb out of my bunk.

It feels strange to be up so early. But Reagan is a morning person, and when I shimmy to the floor, I find her facedown, sprawled on top of a still-made bed. She never got under the covers? It’s insanely chilly in here. I’m a little worried something is wrong, so I shake her shoulder.

“Go away,” she says in rough, muffled voice into her pillow. She sounds awful. And pissed off. So I leave her alone and gather my clothes as quietly as possible. Summer is still asleep, and I fear I’ll wake both of them up if I use the en suite bathroom, so I head out to the camp bathhouse.

It’s far brisker outside the tent than inside, but I see lights in some of the other tents and silhouettes moving around, so I’m not the only person up this early. But I’m able to snag a free shower stall in the bathhouse, and I don’t hurry shaving and washing my hair so that my phone has time to charge. When I’m finished drying my hair, I hike back through the camp, feeling a lot more civilized. The boys’ tent is dark and both of the girls in my tent are still asleep. Unless I want to sit here and listen to Reagan snoring, my best bet is to head up to the lodge for early breakfast.

Blue-gray light filters through pine trees as I hike up the main path. The compound looks different out here in this light, so I have trouble spotting the garbage bin where we left the wine. Maybe Brett and Lennon have already retrieved all the bottles. I mentally cross my fingers and continue along the path toward the lodge.

When I enter the pavilion where we ate dinner, I find an expansive breakfast bar set up on a couple of tables. Eggs, bacon, pastries. Also, an oatmeal station with a dozen topping choices, which one guest is browsing. Why anyone would want that over sausage is a mystery to me. Grabbing a plate, I lift up the lid of a silver chafing dish, and through the warm sausage steam, I get a hazy look at the person hovering over the oatmeal station. He’s tall, dark, and hot, and—

OH MY GOD, I’m ogling Lennon.

It’s like the telescope spying, only worse, because he’s three feet away from me, and I can’t duck to the floor and hide. At least he’s not half-naked.

“Must be the end-times if you’re up before dawn,” he says, lips curling at the corners.

“I couldn’t sleep. Roosters were crowing.”

He laughs. “You’re thinking of a farm.”

“Look, all I know is it sounded like a bird, and it was irritatingly loud.” I slide a quick smile in his direction. “So it was whatever you call mountain roosters.”

“I think they probably call them hawks,” he says, amused.

“Same difference.” I load up my plate with sausage and bacon. “So, oatmeal. Really? Can’t you eat that at home?”

“I love oatmeal. Oatmeal is life.” He sprinkles a spoonful of almonds on his oatmeal. “You know, I believe Samuel Johnson in his infamous eighteenth-century dictionary described oats as something that the English feed to horses but the Scots feed to people.”