a sister who's actions are untamed,
and a brother who's feelings are untamed.
With complete different personalities, yet an awesome bond, the siblings join a summer camp. She plans to fix her problems, he plans to make friends.
But while she's able...
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I think I now know what Newt meant with being at dinner on time.
I did not come on time, since I spend all my time trying to wash chlorine out of my good clothes—might've been dumb to wear these to a camp—and then had trouble finding my way back from the river to the Homestead, so once I arrive, half of the room is already empty.
Four long, wooden tables are stretched through the space. Two of them are empty. The other two are occupied by kids I can clearly see are friends; there's little groups everywhere, and there's quite a few feet between each one of them.
Someone stabs me in the side with their finger. I spin around, my eyes meeting an older man's. Something about his vibe is already better than Rat's, whose real name I still don't know. I don't really care either. Rat fits him perfectly.
"Three questions," he says, a slight Spanish accent slipping through. "Who are you? What place did you come from? What are you doing here, clearly too late?"
"Lelia Blake," I reply. My eyes trail over his body. He's wearing a brown shirt with cargo pants. Most people where pants like that here, likely for all the pockets. "Came from the river. A boy pushed me in the pool and I washed my clothes out. That's why I'm late."
"Have you already chosen where you're going to spend your next weeks? At night?"
"At parties, I hope," I murmur. Then I realize he's a camp instructor, so I clear my throat to cover my actual reply up. "Eh— no. I haven't yet. I can choose between a tent and a hut, though?"
"Yes. But you're late. High chance I'll have to put you in a hut with some others. The tents are usually occupied almost immediately."
"Do you have a list? Can I write my name down somewhere?"
He motions for me to follow him, which I quickly do. I wonder where Lyndon has gone. Maybe checking out what they mean with 'art' here. Perhaps he's already painting.
"Here." The instructor stops in front of a table, on which a big paper lies. I can see lots of names, all in different squares. From 'hut one' to 'hut twenty' and then there's like fifteen tents, all with either two or three names below it. The huts all have five names.
"Well, looks like there's only one option for you left," he says, sighing. "Hut number two."
I glare at the paper. There's four names in the section. Thomas Edison, Jeff Roberts, Clint Smith, Siggy Mund.
Newt mentioned Clint, one of the boys who held the rope. And Thomas was the one who shot this Gally kid.
"Seriously? I'm not spending fifteen weeks around some disgusting boys I don't even know," I spit out. "Place me somewhere else."
