The smell of vinyl seats and day-old Cheetos filled the air as Owen leaned his head against the bus window, one knee bouncing restlessly. His Walkman was cranked high with a copy of REO Speedwagon someone taped over an old sermon—appropriate, considering the devilish grin on his face as he mouthed along.

He tugged at the sleeves of his varsity jacket, glancing over the aisle at a girl two rows ahead. She'd been making eye contact. Kind of. Maybe. Probably. He gave her a lazy smile. She looked away.

"Swing and a miss," he mumbled to himself.

The camp duffel at his feet was too small to carry everything he packed—Owen had chosen looks over function, again. Half his stuff was just cologne and shirts he hoped made his arms look good. Priorities.

Someone in the back cracked open a soda. Someone else was already snoring.

Owen sighed and shifted again, growing more fidgety by the mile. He hated sitting still. Not because he was energetic—because stillness meant thinking. And thinking... was dangerous.

His fingers brushed over his cassette case, then stopped. His mind wandered: Savannah’s cold stare when he flirted with her last summer. Jane’s unreadable silence. The girl he ghosted in May. The guy he almost kissed in April.

Nope. Not today.

He shoved his earbuds in harder.

Outside, the trees got denser. The road narrowed. The summer sun was sinking behind the pines like it didn’t want to be here either.

The driver barked over the speakers:

"Camp Sunnysmiles! Everybody off—grab your crap and make it quick!"

"Still got it," he muttered with a wink. But it was automatic. Hollow.

The bus hissed as it came to a stop at the edge of Camp Sunnysmiles. The gravel crackled under the tires like a warning no one could hear. Owen Boone stood up with a stretch, slung his duffel over one shoulder, and smirked at his reflection in the window. Hair still perfect. Face untouched by the long ride. Game on.

He took one confident step off the bus—and paused.

“Shit,” he muttered, patting his jacket.

His Walkman. Still in the seat.

He turned back.

That was the only reason he didn’t step into the road.

A car—a brown Pontiac, maybe—blew past the camp’s entrance with no warning. Dust blasted into the air, tires skidding just enough to squeal. If Owen had kept walking...

He stood there, frozen in the middle of the doorway. His heart was hammering so hard it felt like it was trying to claw its way out of his chest.

“Damn,” he whispered. “That would’ve been it.”

He didn’t say it loud enough for anyone to hear, but something in his voice cracked. Just a little.

He shook it off. Slapped on a smile. Picked up his Walkman and clutched it like a lucky rabbit’s foot.

“I’m just too pretty to die,” he joked to himself, striding off the bus like the near-death experience never happened.

But as he walked toward the campgrounds—toward the lake, the cabins, the people who didn’t know him yet—he felt it.

Something watching. Something patient.

He shrugged it off. Probably just paranoia. Or low blood sugar. Or...whatever.

The golden boy brushed invisible dust from his sleeve and flashed a grin toward the forest, like he could scare the shadows off with a smile.

He couldn’t. Not forever.