Page 2

RYDER

I knew it the second I heard the scrape.

That goddamn dock groan sharp and wet like something dying, rips through my drill like a cannon blast. Twenty-five kids turn their heads in unison, lifeguard whistles forgotten mid-command.

And there she is.

Paddleboard thief, unicorn floatie, and glitter demon, gliding in like some chaotic sea sprite summoned by my worst migraine.

What the hell is she even wearing? Her shorts sparkle like a disco ball drowned in a party store.

I grit my teeth while letting her know, in no uncertain terms, she’s very much late.

She doesn’t flinch. Just grins and tosses back some quip about sunshine and reinforcements. Of course she does. She’s got the kind of grin that dares you to yell at her and laughs while you try.

I want to throw my whistle.

Instead, I clock the time: 08:23.

Orientation started at 07:00 sharp. I hand-delivered the schedule to every counselor’s bunk last night, like I do every damn year. Precision matters. Consistency matters. Especially here, where some of these kids have never known safety until this place.

Callie hops off her paddleboard like we’re hosting a beach party, dripping glitter and bad decisions all over the shallows.

She leans over while I try to remind her of proper conduct, picking up one of her childish floaties, and mocks me with it.

I swear to all the old gods, she’s trying to make my head explode.

The campers laugh. I’m not even mad at them, they’re kids. But I am mad that she’s already winning them over with nothing but chaos and a smile. The last thing I need is more disorderly conduct around energetic and unrestrained children.

Once she stomps up the hill trailing glitter like some manic fairy godmother, I blow the whistle again.

“Back to drills!” I bark. “Tread set, two minutes. Now!”

The kids jump like startled minnows, and order returns. Sort of.

But the damage is done. The edge is off them. The rhythm’s broken.

I finish the session anyway, clipboard clenched so tight I’ll probably snap it before lunch. When it’s over, I send the kids to free swim with another counselor and head to the lake’s edge alone. Water laps at my calves, cool and constant. Finally quiet again.

I dive in.

Below the surface, the world goes still. No glitter. No grinning maniacs. Just the sound of my heartbeat and the currents shifting around me like a second skin.

I swim deep, fast. Down past the rocky shelf where the water turns colder and the light fractures. Down to where my tribe used to gather, before the rupture took them.

Before I took them.

I clench my fists against the pull of memory. Not now.

Not here.

Not because of her.

When I come up, I rest my arms on a boulder slick with moss and stare out at the lake. Still calm. Still safe. But for how long?

I saw it this morning. The tremor. The way the water vibrated wrong just before she showed up. Maybe it’s coincidence.

Or maybe the lake’s waking up again.

I shake it off. I’ll check the deep rift tonight.

Right now, I’ve got a clipboard to update.

Julie finds me mid-column on my incident report sheet. “You know you scared the hell outta her, right?”

I don’t look up. “Good.”

She chuckles. “Ryder.”

“She blew orientation. Interrupted drills. Used a unicorn floatie as a goddamn chariot.”

“She also pulled three shy kids into the session who’ve never gotten in the deep end before,” Julie says, voice gentler now. “Some of them are scared of the lake. She made them laugh.”

I scowl. “Laughter doesn’t save them when they’re drowning.”

Julie steps closer. “Neither does a clipboard if they won’t follow you into the water.”

I stiffen.

She sighs and pats my arm. “Just… don’t chew her up too hard, alright? She’s got heart. You might actually like her.”

Not likely.

But I grunt anyway, because arguing with Julie is like arguing with the moon.

Later, I spot Chaos Mermaid outside the mess hall, her unicorn floatie half-deflated and lounging like it’s seen war. She’s wringing out her shirt and humming off-key. Still smiling. Still... bright.

She doesn’t see me watching.

Good.

The last thing I need is for her to think she’s gotten to me.

But later that night, as I write my evening report and hear her laughter drifting from the campfire pit across the hill, I press too hard with my pen.

And tear straight through the page.

The torn paper stares back at me like a challenge.

I exhale hard through my nose and flip it over. Try again.

But the ink sticks. My hand hesitates. It’s not the page that’s the problem.

It’s her.

For three summers, things have run like clockwork. I built this camp’s aquatic program from the bottom of the damn lake up. Same drills, same shifts, same faces. Predictable. Manageable. Safe.

I don’t do surprises.

And Callie O’Shea is a surprise wrapped in glitter, chaos, and ten pounds of reckless charm.

One day here, and she’s already poked holes in my entire system. Not just with the paddleboard stunt or the floatie debacle but the way she looked at me. Like rules are optional. Like I’m the weird one for caring that they exist.

I hate that it’s working.

The kids laughed today. Broke formation. Lost focus. A single weak link in this chain can get someone hurt, and I’ve already lived through that mistake once.

She doesn’t understand that.

Hell, maybe she never will.

But I’ll be damned if I let this camp fall apart because of a flamingo hat and a cocky smile.