Endurance - Jack Kilborn [119]
“Was it really this island?” Laneesha asked. Her voice was condescending, almost defiant. But there was a bit of edge to it, a tiny hint of fear.
“No, it wasn’t,” Sara said. “Martin, tell her it wasn’t.”
Martin didn’t say anything, but he did give Laneesha a sly wink.
“So where was it?” Georgia asked, though her face showed zero curiosity.
“It wasn’t anywhere, Georgia.” Sara slapped at a mosquito that had been biting her neck, then wiped the tiny splot of blood onto her jeans. “This is a campfire story. It’s made up, to try to scare you.”
“It’s fake?” Georgia sneered. “Pretend?”
Sara nodded. “Yes, it’s pretend. Right, Martin?”
Martin shrugged, still not looking at Sara.
“So what pretend-happened?” Laneesha asked.
“There were eight people.” Martin was sitting on an old log, higher up than everyone else. “Camping just like we are. On a night like tonight. On what might be this very island. They vanished, these eight, never to be seen again. But some folks who live around here claim to know what happened. Some say those unfortunate eight people were subjected to things worse than death.”
Meadow folded his arms. “Ain’t nothin’ worse than death.”
Martin stared hard at the teenager. “There are plenty of things worse.”
No one spoke for a moment. Sara felt a chill. Maybe it was the cool night breeze, whistling through the woods. Or maybe it was Martin’s story, which she had to admit was getting sort of creepy. But Sara knew the chill actually went deeper. As normal as everyone seemed right now, it was only an illusion. Their little family was breaking apart.
But she didn’t want to think about that. Now, she wanted to enjoy this final camping trip, to make some good memories.
Sara scooted a tiny bit closer to the campfire and put her arms around Jack. The night sky was clear, the stars bright against the blackness of space, the hunter’s moon huge and tinged red. Beyond the smoke Sara could smell the pine trees from the surrounding woods, and the big water of Huron, a few hundred yards to the west. As goodbyes went, this was a lovely setting for one.
She let her eyes wander over the group. Tyrone Morrow, seventeen, abandoned by a mother who could no longer control him, running with one of Motor City’s worst street gangs for more than two years. Dressed in a hoodie and jeans so baggy they’d fall around his ankles without the belt.
Meadow was on Tyrone’s right. He was from a rival Detroit club. That they were sitting next to each other was a commitment from each on how much they wanted out of the gangsta life.
On Meadow’s side, holding his hand, Laneesha Simms. Her hair was cropped almost as short as the boys’, but her make-up and curves didn’t allow anyone to mistake her for a man.
Georgia Dailey sat beside Laneesha. Sixteen, white, brunette, pudgy. She held a long stick and was poking at something on the ground; a dead frog, belly-up with its legs jutting out. Sara thought about saying something, decided to let it go.
Behind Georgia, Tom Gransee predictably paced around the fire, tugging at his wifebeater T like it was an extra skin he wanted to shed.
These were kids society had given up on, sentenced into their care by the courts. But Martin—and by extension, Sara—hadn’t given up on them. That was why they created the Second Chance Center.
Sara finally rested her gaze on Martin. The fire flickered across his handsome features, glinted in his blue eyes. He had aged remarkably well, looking closer to twenty than thirty, as athletic as the day she met him in that graduate psych class. She looked down at her son in the baby sling—a miniature version of Martin—and absently rubbed his back.
“On this dark night six years ago,” Martin continued, “this group of