I suddenly smell roasted marshmallow.

“Stuck on lookout duty?” a deep voice rumbles at my ear.

A small yelp escapes my mouth. I punch Lennon in the arm.

“Ow,” he complains, rubbing his sleeve.

“Stop creeping up on me like that,” I whisper. “You’ll give me a heart attack.”

His white teeth flash in the dusk. “Sounds like a challenge.”

“Glad you’re so gung ho for my early demise.”

“You used to like when I sneaked up in the dark.”

Memories from last fall flitter through my head. Tiptoeing out of the house to find him waiting behind the palm tree at the bottom of the steps. His hand over my mouth to stop me from laughing. Feeling like my heart would burst out my chest with wanting his arms around me.

Don’t think about it. Don’t answer him. Just pretend he didn’t say anything. Act casual.

“Where were you just now, anyway?” I manage.

“Not doing this stupid shit. And I also”—he holds up a flattened s’more—“found this. Never turn down toasted marshmallow. That’s a sin.”

“Oh, is it really?” I whisper, irritated that my heart is still racing. Because he startled me. Not because of what he said. Or that he’s standing so close that I can smell wood smoke on his shirt. But why is he standing so close?

“Pretty sure that’s what the preacher said last Sunday at church.”

“You still go to church with Mac?” The New Walden Chapel. They have service outside in a small amphitheater, and people from different faiths go there. I think they mainly exist to feed the homeless and do other charity-work-type things around the Bay Area; Mac used to be homeless when she was our age, and she often got her meals from their soup kitchen. My dad says it’s not a real church, but what would he know about divinity?

“I don’t have a choice. She claims I wear too much black.”

I snort. “Okay, so let me get this straight. Mac believes that God forgives her for selling things like . . .”

“Cock rings?” he provides.

That wasn’t my first choice. His nonchalance frazzles me, and I get a little defensive. “Yet God doesn’t forgive you reading all that gruesome horror manga? All those gory zombie movies?”

“Personally, I’d like to think so. Being prepared for the zombie apocalypse is just common sense.”

“Yeah, pretty sure I remember that being mentioned in the Bible,” I say sarcastically.

“It’s an amendment to the commandments,” he says. “Amendment number thirteen. Thou shall arm yourself with machete and shotgun, and remember to aim for the head.”

I turn away to keep my eye on Brett.

Lennon reaches around my shoulder, holding up half of a marshmallow. “Want some?”

His voice is dark and velvety, so close to my ear that a thousand goose bumps race down my neck. An unwanted shiver chases them, and I pray he doesn’t see it. “No.”

“Are you sure?” he asks, voice even lower. Deeper. Seductive.

No. Not seductive. What I’m hearing is the equivalent of a mirage. See, this is where I went wrong before. Just because one person’s feeling something doesn’t mean the other person intended it. Just because my body wants to slowly turn around, to find him gazing down at me, and our eyes would lock, and—

What’s the matter with me? I have to stop. For the love of God, have some pride, Everhart.

“No, thank you,” I say more resolutely.

“Your loss,” he says, sounding bored. His arm disappears.

And now I do turn to look at him. Slowly. But not because I expect anything. I just want to see if he really is bored, or if . . .

His eyes aren’t on mine. Of course not. He’s gazing off in the distance.

“Oh, look,” he says casually. “Jack Kerouac is about to get busted.”

What?

I swing around and spot the bartender in the pavilion, headed straight toward them. Crap, crap, crap.

“Brett!” I whisper loudly.

He doesn’t hear me.

“Guys!” I say louder, panicked.

Summer glances around as if she possibly heard me, but isn’t quite sure. What do I do? If I take a step into the light, the bartender will see me. But if I can’t get Brett’s attention—

Lennon whistles.

Brett looks up.

I wave frantically and point toward the pavilion.

He understands now. There’s a short scuffle with the wine bottles, and then they’re racing toward us. Problem is, when they get to the steps, the bartender can—

Son of a sea cook!

They’ve been spotted.

“Run!” Brett tells us.

He tears across the lawn, juggling four bottles of wine. Instinct for self-preservation has me running after him. The scent of damp grass and pine needles rise from my feet as my shoes slap the ground. We’re all racing as if our lives depend upon it, a panic-fueled herd of buffaloes driven into shadow. I’m completely turned around. Where are the campgrounds? I don’t remember all these trees and bushes.

Brett veers left just as I spot the main walkway. It’s lit up by tiny gold path lights. Brett and Reagan leap over some flowering shrubs to get to the path. Something crashes.

“Oh, God!” Summer yells.

Glass crushes under my shoes. The scent of wine floods my nose.

“Keep going,” Brett says, chest heaving. “Don’t stop.”

I glance back at the pavilion. It doesn’t look like anyone’s running after us. We leave the broken bottle behind and continue along the main path until we crest the top of a steep hill. The first camp of tents comes into view. Brett slows to a stop, and we all catch our breath and look down into the valley.

This camp is nothing but yurts, all of them the shape of circus tents. They’re eerily lovely, glowing with warm, marigold light—sanctuaries in the darkening forest, one that parts to reveal a black sky. And everywhere—everywhere—in that sky, there are stars.

My stars.

It’s as if they appeared from nowhere. As if this is a completely different night sky than the one back home. We have a pretty clear view at the Melita Hills observatory, but the cities clustered in the Bay Area collectively produce a lot of light pollution.

No cities out here.

Oh, the photos I could take with my telescope!

“Zorie!” Lennon calls.

Crap. The group is on the move again, and everyone but the two of us has already made it halfway down the hill.

“Sorry,” I say. I get my butt in motion and explain, “I spaced out.” I chuckle and catch my breath. “Literally.”

What a dorky joke. All this physical activity is rotting my brain.

“The stars, you mean?” he says, glancing up briefly. “It’s amazing, right? I knew you would love them out here.”

He jogs faster to catch up with the group, and I race to follow, his surprising confession tumbling around inside my head. But not for long, because when we’re a few yards from the camp, Reagan comes to a stop.

“What’s going on?” Kendrick asks.

“On the path, near the third yurt,” she says.

I scan ahead and spot the problem. A large man in a dark jacket stands with his back to us, chatting with a couple of campers. On the back of the jacket, the word MUIR is printed in white.

“Mr. Randall,” Reagan says. “The compound’s security ranger. If you think the bartender was a jerk, he’s Santa Claus compared to Mr. Randall. We can’t be seen with all this wine. He’ll probably have us arrested.”