Chapter 48

It starts in front of everyone.

We got back from the hospital yesterday night. Today I’m at the waterfront, late afternoon. The sun’s brutal, campers are restless, and the CIT’s are supposed to be running a peer-led drill I helped set up.

It’s going well.

Not perfect—but good.

They’re engaged. They’re trying.

I’m watching from the dock, arms crossed, giving them space to lead. That’s the whole point.

“…Switch leaders,” I call out. “…Let someone else take over.”

One of the girls hesitates, then steps forward. It’s a little messy, but she’s figuring it out.

I smile.

That’s when—

“…Stop.”

Quinn’s voice cuts across the water.

Everything pauses.

I turn slowly.

She’s walking down the dock, expression unreadable, clipboard tucked under her arm.

“…Reset this,” she says, not looking at me—looking at the group. “…This isn’t structured enough. You’re letting it drift.”

The CIT’s go quiet.

I feel it immediately. That shift.

Eyes flicking between us.

“…They’re fine,” I say, keeping my voice even. “…They’re learning.”

Quinn finally looks at me.

“…They’re confused,” she replies. “…There’s no clear leadership.”

“…That’s part of the exercise,” I say. “…They figure it out.”

“…Not like this.”

There it is.

That edge.

“…We talked about this,” I say, quieter now, but firmer. “…Let them struggle a bit.”

“…There’s a difference between struggle and no direction,” Quinn says, tone sharpening just enough for others to notice.

A few counselors glance over.

Great.

I step closer. Not too close.

“…Then let me handle it.”

She doesn’t move.

“…I am handling it.”

Silence.

Thick.

Public.

“…Okay,” I say, nodding once, jaw tight. “…Then go ahead.”

Something flickers in her eyes.

But she turns anyway, addressing the group.

“…Everyone out of the water. We’re restarting.”

The CIT’s groan, disappointed.

One of them glances at me.

I force a smile.

“…Listen to Quinn,” I say.

But inside?

It burns.

The rest of the period is… controlled.

Too controlled.

Quinn runs it clean, efficient, structured.

And yeah—it works.

Of course it does.

That’s not the point.

After, I’m stacking lifejackets harder than necessary when she walks up beside me.

“…You undermined me,” I say before she can speak.

She exhales. “…I corrected the session.”

“…In front of everyone.”

“…Because they needed it.”

I turn to her.

“…You couldn’t have said something to me first?”

“…There wasn’t time.”

“…There was enough time to make me look like I didn’t know what I was doing.”

Her expression tightens.

“…That’s not what I did.”

“…That’s exactly what you did.”

A beat.

Then—

“…You’re taking this personally again.”

It hits like a slap.

“…Because it is personal,” I snap, voice low but sharp. “…You don’t get to talk to me like I’m just another counselor when—”

I stop myself.

Too late.

Her eyes narrow.

“…When what?”

I shake my head. “…Forget it.”

“…No,” she says, stepping closer. “…Say it.”

“…There’s nothing to say.”

“…Kennedy.”

I step back.

“…Drop it.”

And this time—

she does.

But the silence after?

Worse than the argument.

That night

The camp is quieter.

Not peaceful.

Just… tired.

I’m in the cabin with my girls, helping them settle, when I hear it.

At first, I think it’s just someone crying.

Normal.

Homesick.

But then it gets sharper.

Faster.

Breath hitching.

“…Hey—hey, what’s going on?” I say, moving toward the back bunk.

It’s Maya. One of my quieter campers.

She’s curled in on herself, shaking.

“…I can’t breathe,” she gasps. “…I can’t—I can’t—”

Oh.

I drop to my knees beside her.

“…Okay, hey, look at me,” I say quickly, keeping my voice calm even as my chest tightens. “…You’re okay. You’re safe. Just breathe with me, alright?”

She shakes her head violently.

“…I can’t—”

“…You can,” I say gently. “…I’ve got you.”

But she’s spiraling.

Fast.

“…Annabelle,” I say over my shoulder, “…grab water.”

I try grounding techniques. Slow breathing. Counting.

Nothing’s working.

Her breaths are too quick. Too shallow.

“…Okay,” I murmur, thinking, “…okay—”

And then—

“…Move.”

I freeze.

Quinn.

She’s already kneeling on the other side of Maya, calm, focused, like she stepped straight into it without hesitation.

“…Hey,” she says softly to her. “…Look at me. Not around—just me, okay?”

Maya’s eyes dart, panicked—

Then land on her.

“…Good,” Quinn says, voice steady. “…You’re not in danger. Your body just thinks you are. We’re going to slow it down together.”

She holds up her hand.

“…Match me. In for four.”

Maya tries.

Fails.

Tries again.

“…That’s it,” Quinn murmurs. “…Again. I’m right here.”

I watch.

For a second too long.

She’s good at this.

Really good.

“…Kennedy,” she says quietly, not looking at me, “…cold water.”

I blink. “…Yeah. Right.”

I move immediately, grabbing the bottle Annabelle brought, handing it over.

Our fingers brush.

Brief.

Unintentional.

Still electric.

“…Here,” Quinn says gently to Maya, pressing the cold bottle into her hands. “…Hold this. Focus on it. It’s real. You’re here.”

Minutes pass.

Slowly—

Maya’s breathing steadies.

Her shoulders drop.

Her grip loosens.

“…There you go,” Quinn says softly. “…You did that. Not me. You.”

She nods weakly.

Quinn stands slowly.

I do too.

For a second—

we’re close again.

Too close.

“…You handled that well,” I say quietly.

It’s honest.

She glances at me.

“…So did you.”

A pause.

Different from before.

Not sharp.

Not angry.

Just… something else.

“…We should—uh—check the others,” I say.

“…Yeah.”

But neither of us moves right away.

Because for a moment there—

it felt easy again.

And that might be worse than the fighting.