The knock on my tent came earlier than I expected. I groaned, rolling over and burying my face in my pillow.
“Go away,” I muttered, though I doubted whoever it was would actually hear me.
“Breakfast delivery,” Marcus’s voice called, annoyingly chipper.
I sat up, glaring at the tent flap. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch,” he said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. He was holding a tray with a plate of scrambled eggs and toast. “You’re injured, remember? I figured you’d appreciate a meal you didn’t have to limp to get.”
I crossed my arms, narrowing my eyes. “You didn’t poison it, did you?”
“Not this time,” he said, smirking as he set the tray down in front of me.
I rolled my eyes but grabbed the toast anyway. “So, why are you actually here?”
He leaned against the pole of the tent, crossing his arms. “Because you might want to gear up. The next activity doesn’t involve walking—it’s some storytelling thing.”
I groaned again, taking a bite of the toast. “Great. Just what I need. A campfire circle of forced bonding.”
“If you don’t show up, they’ll think you’re just hiding here,” Marcus pointed out, his tone light but pointed.
I glared at him over the rim of my mug as I took a sip of coffee. “Fine. But only because I don’t need rumors flying around about me.”
After finishing breakfast, I begrudgingly got ready. My wrist still ached from yesterday’s scavenger hunt fiasco, but I pulled my hair up into a sleek ponytail, swiped on a bit of mascara, and adjusted my camp uniform. If nothing else, I could still look like I had it all together.
When I stepped out of the tent, the morning air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of pine and damp earth. For a second, I felt like maybe today wouldn’t be so bad.
And then I saw her.
Monica was standing just a few feet away, her hands clasped in front of her, her expression uncertain.
I froze, my stomach twisting into knots.
“Stacey,” she said, her voice soft, careful. “I just want to talk.”
My jaw tightened, and I felt the tension coil in my chest like a spring ready to snap. “Go away, Monica,” I said, my voice cold.
“Please,” she said, taking a tentative step closer. “Your father wants us to talk—”
I didn’t let her finish.
My hand shot out before I could stop myself, the sound of the slap echoing in the clearing. Monica’s head jerked to the side, her hand flying to her cheek as she gasped.
“Go to hell,” I hissed, my voice trembling with fury. “Both of you!”