Chapter 28: Chapter 28

After Elijah dumps me, I go to find my brother and let him know Paige isn’t coming today. Logan isn’t in his room—I knock and no one answers, so I say, “Yo, Mason. Is my brother in there?” I don’t get an answer. I knock again, and I know that if Mason was there, he’d tell me to fuck off and stop knocking. He doesn’t.

I head outside next. Holly’s still there, Allan having wandered off. “Snacks!” Holly says and puts out her hand. Then she catches my

expression. “What’s wrong?”

I open my mouth to say that Paige isn’t coming, and instead hear myself say, “I just got dumped by my fake boyfriend.”

She scrambles to her feet. “What?”

I force a laugh. “No big deal. It was a joke anyway.” That’s where I want to leave it. Instead, I hear, “I’m doing something wrong, aren’t I? Giving off a . . .” I wave my arms. “Anti-boy vibe or something. Scaring them away, and I have no idea how or why.” I rub my face. “Sorry, I don’t mean to get angsty. Not over a fake boyfriend. It’s just . . . The way he did it, I still feel dumped.” I suck in a breath. “Shit. Stop that. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. He obviously hurt you. What’d he say?”

“That it’s over. Then he practically ran from me when all I was trying to do was warn him about what happened to Logan last night. The situation is

getting worse, too, and now Paige isn’t coming until tomorrow.”

I explain. Then we split up to hunt for Logan and Allan. I go back inside while Holly circles the building to check all the various groups out here. Inside, it’s practically empty, and I wonder whether we’ve missed the call for a group meeting. The distant murmur of voices suggests we have.

I’m standing at the top of the steps, ready to start tracking my brother’s scent when I realize that everyone who isn’t outside seems to be in that meeting, which means the other end of the hall is silent. The end of the hall where our cell phones are kept . . .

I creep in that direction. If I hear so much as a cough, I’ll retreat.

I continue to the office and put my ear to the door. Silence. I step back into the hall, close my eyes and listen, focus everything on that.

Silence. Complete silence.

I rap on the office door as softly as I can, but the sound still seems to echo in the silence. When no one answers, I turn the knob. It’s locked, which surprises me because I thought Elijah broke it last night. I twist firmly, and it doesn’t snap—it just disengages. Nice security. A credit card probably would have worked just as well.

I slip into the room. It’s brightly lit, the sun streaming through the skylight, which I’m sure is awesome for the electronics. With the door shut and the sun blazing down, it’s got to be ninety degrees in here. Who the hell designed this place?

I wipe away a bead of sweat and look around. There’s a desktop computer—the one Elijah tried breaking into. There’s also a printer with paper in the output tray. I flip it over to see a stack of sheets for a workshop we were supposed to have this morning. The printer menu screen tells me they were printed late yesterday afternoon. No one even bothered collecting them.

That’s troubling, but it isn’t why I’m here.

Elijah said they keep the phones in a locker. I find three lockboxes. One’s

too small to hold phones, so I ignore it. The other is unlocked—it’s a long, narrow container that’s open and empty. I strike gold with the third. It’s a phone-charging cabinet. I’ve seen simple versions in libraries and airport lounges, a box a couple of feet square with pull-out shelves for the devices.

I open one drawer and see . . . Nothing. It’s empty. I open the next. Same thing. I keep opening.

The charge-box is completely empty.

Maybe this is one of those devices that seem supercool until you actually use it and realize a simple shelf with plugs would have worked better.

I leave the box and look for anything big enough to hold two dozen cell phones. There’s nothing, really. The office isn’t that big. I open drawers and glance into the shallow closet, but it’s mostly office supplies and a nest of tangled device cords. The only boxes are for printer paper. They’re big enough, but no one’s going to dump twenty cell phones into a cardboard box. There’s no better way to ensure mutiny than to hand teenagers back their devices with scratches and dings. Sure, they already have scratches and dings, but we know every last one of them, and we’d better not find new ones.

There’s a metal container under the printer paper cartons. I’m moving aside the first cardboard box when the contents shift in a way that paper doesn’t. I open it to see the phones. Two dozen cell phones, tossed into a cardboard box as if headed for recycling.

That must be what these are. Recycled phones. Maybe for a game or some kind of cool tech project. As I pull them into the light, though, I see a phone case that looks like Doctor Who’s blue phone box. Anime characters decorate another.

Not recycled phones.

I dig until I find a bubblegum pink leather cover with a Mexican sugar skull sticker. I open it to see my phone.

I stare down at the box.

What the hell?

There must be fifteen grand worth of tech here. Dumped into a cardboard box.

I stifle a surge of indignation and turn on my phone. Nothing happens, because it’s been unplugged for the past day, and I’d handed it over with ten percent battery, assured by Tricia that they’d charge them for us.

I dig through the box until I find a plain black leather cover. Logan’s phone. As usual, my brother had the foresight to charge his in Nick’s car, and it’s at eighty-five percent. The facial recognition fails, of course, but I know his code. We’ve always known each other’s codes.

I enter it and wade through the inevitable barrage of text notifications. There's a goodnight one from Mom, who is thrilled that we're having such an excellent time we didn't call.

You have no idea, Mom.

As I look at the texts and messages, I notice the last one came in early yesterday evening. Odd, considering how many notifications he was getting until then. I see one from my ex and flip past, my stomach clenching even without reading it.

The last message—a group text from a schoolmate—came in at eight last night. A little earlier, there’s one from Paige.

Hey, Logan. You’ve probably already had your phone confiscated. Sorry about that. I’ll talk to the counselors when I get there. I understand the basic principle, but you guys need to be in touch with your parents. For now, have fun, and I’ll see you tomorrow!

I hit Reply on her message and type.

It’s Kate. I know Benny is sick (tell him I said hi!) and you’re delayed, but seriously weird stuff is happening here. My phone’s dead. I’m going to recharge it, and then Logan and I might head into the forest to wait for you. Yeah, stuff is THAT weird. Please don’t tell Mom! Just text when you can, and I’ll explain once we’re out of here.

I hit Send. Then I return to the closet unit, where I saw a shoebox filled with cords. As I dig through the box, I listen for a reply from Paige. Sure, she’s caring for her sick six-year-old, but Paige is always plugged in. She’ll see my text pop up on her watch, and even if she’s in the middle of giving Benny medicine, she’ll let me know she’ll reply ASAP.

I find the right cord and then check my text to see the exclamation mark signifying that it wasn’t sent. My gaze rises to the cell service bars. We must have service. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be given phone time every night. Yet there isn’t a single bar.

When I hit a couple of buttons, a message pops up.

SIM card not installed.

I hurry back to the box and pull out a couple of older phones without thumb or facial recognition. After a few tries, I find one that isn’t passcode protected. On the opening screen, it says the same thing. No SIM card.

They removed the SIM cards. Took them out and chucked all the phones into a box. That’s why there’s no message from Mom. They pulled the cards yesterday evening.

I stuff my phone, Logan’s phone and the charge cord into my pockets.

Then I start searching for our SIM cards.

I’d spotted a small locked box across the room. It’d been too small for all the cell phones, so I hadn’t bothered snapping the lock. I do now and open it to find prescription bottles. I check a few. Adderall, Tylenol with codeine, Ambien. In other words, the counselors confiscated any medication that other campers might steal for recreational use.

I dig through the box, in case the SIM cards are at the bottom. They aren’t. I see a couple of other small boxes down by the floor. I bend, and as I’m picking up one, air wafts through a vent in the wall. With it comes a very distinctive smell.

Blood.