After we’re registered, Candy leads us to our cabin tents, giving us an abbreviated tour and answering questions along the way. The main lodge has several lounge areas and connects to a screened-in dining pavilion where dinner will be served later. Outside, winding paths lead to dozens of canvas cabin tents nestled in the woods. Some are rectangular, some round—the yurts—but all are the color of unbleached muslin. They’re grouped into areas named after birds, each area a short walk from the next. It takes us about ten minutes to get to our area, Camp Owl, where two of the rectangular tents sitting near a dense forest are reserved for us.

Reagan isn’t happy about this. “We’re supposed to have a yurt,” she argues, “with a view of the valley.”

“Sorry, but Camp Falcon was accidentally overbooked. I put a family of six in my last one earlier this morning.”

“Not cool,” Reagan says grumpily. “We’ve had the reservation since last summer. My mom isn’t going to be happy.”

“If you’d like, I’ll call her and explain,” Candy says. “But this might work out better for you. Girls can take one tent, and the boys can take another.”

The implication is obvious. Candy will call Mrs. Reid and inform her that her daughter has brought along three boys. Reagan fumes quietly, but acquiesces. We really don’t have a choice.

“Just let life happen,” I tell Reagan.

“Yeah,” Brett says cheerfully. “That’s right, Zorie. You’re preaching my word, and I dig it.”

The look Reagan gives me could slice through steel.

The tents are both exactly alike: sealed cement floors, canvas walls fixed to a wooden frame, a screen door, slatted windows that can be opened to take advantage of the breeze during the day and closed at night to keep the cabin warm, along with a glass-front tent stove. A small seating area surrounds the stove, with a real sofa and brightly patterned Navajo rugs. Two sets of bunk beds stretch across the back of the tent, all with feather-top mattresses, luxury linens, and down pillows.

Behind the bunks, past a canvas divider, is an en suite toilet and sink. No showers. Those are in the bathhouse down the hill, shared with six other cabins in Camp Owl, Candy reports.

Candy reports a few other things, as well. “You’re in bear country, and yes, they’ve gotten through the national park fence and come into the compound. For everyone’s safety, all food must be stored in the food locker when it’s not in the process of being served or eaten,” she says, pointing outside the tent’s door to a green metal box that sits beneath a canopy with two rocking chairs. “Either there, or inside a portable food locker, meaning a bear-resistant food container that’s approved by Yosemite and King’s Forest.”

Lennon’s head slowly turns toward mine.

Why, oh, why does he have to be right? That peanut butter fudge is not sitting well in my stomach right now.

Candy ticks off a list on her fingers of what we need to store in the locker. “Unopened food, even in cans. Snacks, drink mixes, vacuum-sealed pouches. Every bit of it. All toiletries with a scent. Lotion, makeup, deodorant.”

“Cologne, too?” Lennon asks.

“Yes,” she says.

“I’m talking strong cologne. Like, some kind of extreme body spray.”

“Most definitely,” the woman answers, perplexed.

Lennon flicks his eyes toward Brett. But Brett is completely oblivious, as he’s currently trying to restack water bottles into a pyramid on a console table behind the sofa.

Candy points to the bathroom. “If you need extras of anything—water, razor, towels—just ask at the front desk. You can call, of course, but cell phone service is hit-and-miss up here. If you ever need to make an emergency call, we’ll let you use the landline. If it’s after ten p.m., Bundy and I stay in the log cabin to the right of the lodge.”

“What about backcountry permits for King’s Forest?” Lennon asks. “Your website said you can arrange it and have one delivered to our tent.”

“For a fee,” she says. “We have to drive to a park station to pick them up.”

“Put it on my credit card,” Reagan says breezily.

Candy gives Reagan a withering look. “You can stop by the desk at your convenience and fill out the form.”

Yikes.

“No music is allowed in the tent cabins,” Candy says to all of us. “No loud talking after sunset when you’re inside your camp. Other guests may be trying to sleep, and these walls aren’t soundproof. Quiet hours start at ten p.m. and last until seven a.m.”

“Geez,” Summer mumbles under her breath near my ear. “This place is a dictatorship.”

Candy points in the general direction of the lodge. “We have a small store that sells sweatshirts and rain gear. You can also rent bear canisters and camp stoves. It’s run on the honor system, so you’ll need to put cash in the bin or write your tent number and name on the sheet to have it added to your final bill. Also—”

Brett’s water-bottle pyramid crashes. Bottles roll across the floor. “Oops, sorry,” he says.

Candy pauses, and her inner struggle with patience is showing in the slant of her brows, but, clearing her throat, she finishes her speech. “Evening social time starts at six. We serve drinks, then a four-course dinner. We encourage you to mingle with other guests at the nightly bonfire afterward. The pavilion closes at nine. Any questions, come see us at the registration desk.”

What if I have questions now? No one else is paying attention to Candy, but I wish they’d listed all of this stuff on the website or given us a printout so I could review it and memorize everything. I’m itching to ask her to repeat everything so that I can write it all down. Actually, I’m literally itching and resist the urge to scratch. Lennon’s gaze flicks to my arms, and I feel as if he knows, which only makes the itch worsen.

If I make it through this week without having a nervous breakdown, I’ll consider it a win.

8

* * *

Since it’s already late in the afternoon, there’s no time to do anything before dinner. So the boys retreat to their tent, and we all unpack. I stash all my food and toiletries in the food locker outside and check my telescope for visual damage; it seems to have survived the bumpy trip on top of the SUV and arrived intact. Then I try to call Mom to let her know I arrived intact. But there’s no service in the tent cabin. There’s Wi-Fi at the lodge, so I go ahead and text—both to her and to Avani—and trust that my messages will go through when I get a signal.

Reagan disappears, so Summer and I set out and explore the Camp Owl section of the compound on our own. There’s a picnic table between our tent and the boys’, and a small trailhead behind us, with a sign warning that the trail feeds into the national forest; Muir Camping Compound absolves itself of responsibility should hikers choose to leave their property. A group of wild, unsupervised kids is running into the woods here, so it can’t be all that scary.

We avoid the screaming kids and follow a fastidiously landscaped trail: cream-colored rocks banded by the occasional flowering shrub and a steady line of path lights. The trail leads to a cedar-shingled bathhouse.

“Whoa,” Summer whispers appreciatively when we peek inside, and I’m feeling the same way. It’s practically a spa, one that’s themed to match our beautiful surroundings, and even nicer in person than it was in the online photos: stained wood countertops, stone benches, pretty lanterns hanging from iron hooks near the mirrors. Unlike our tents, there’s electricity here, and a woman is charging her cell phone while she blow-dries her hair. There’s even a small sauna in the back.