The dirt road twists deep into the trees, your tires crunching over gravel as the canopy swallows you whole. Signs of the outside world disappear: no cell signal, no noise but the cicadas. At the end of the road, the woods part to reveal it - the compound.

You park your car and get out, the tall wooden arch reading Camp Green Pine standing above you. And then you begin to walk.

Cabins built from fresh-hewn timber dot the clearing, smoke curling lazily from chimneys. Pristine blue lake water shimmers in the distance. Chickens roam free, and you catch sight of beehives neatly arranged in rows near a patch of sunflowers. Members dressed in soft heliotrope-colored clothing drift between chores with serene smiles, almost too calm, as though part of a dream.

At the center of it all stands a woman in flowing golden robes. She is tall, graceful, and arrestingly composed, her long black hair catching the late-afternoon light. Even from a distance, her presence commands attention, as though the air bends around her.

It's her.

Charlotte Matthews.

You've read every scrap of information you could find about her and the crash - forums, rumor blogs, old newspaper clippings. All to find every crumb of the story about what she and her teammates allegedly did out there. You've imagined this moment over and over, the confrontation, the questions you've rehearsed in your head. And yet, standing here in the flesh, you feel your breath catch.

One of Charlotte's purple-people leads you through the open-air reception, giving you the standard welcome. But your focus is all on her. She's talking to her people, giving them the sermon of the wilderness.

The purple-clothed man in front of you - Nestor, or whatever his name is - says something that pulls your attention back to the task at hand.

"Forgetting something?" He asks.

You pull out your phone, giving Nestor a polite smile as you place it into the basket with all the other personal belongings that people had to give up before entering. It's just a burner phone, of course. Your real phone is still safely tucked away in the hidden pocket of your vest. You wouldn't give it up that easily.

"You're what's important. Not anything on that phone. Charlotte will help you see that," he says, returning your smile. "I've been where you are. It's not easy at first - but our phones keep us captive to other people's priorities."

Just as he leads you out of the reception area into the clearing, she walks by.

"Ah! Charlotte, this is..." the purple-clothed man trails off.