Rourke didn’t believe her, but then, one rainy day when outdoor activities were canceled and Joey was gone on a solo expedition, she showed him some of the camp’s treasured photo albums housed in the library. The collection was in the main pavilion, a gigantic timber building from the 1930s. It was the heart of Camp Kioga, housing the dining hall, library, infirmary, the kitchen and camp offices.
And sure enough, there were several snapshots of his mom in the 1970s, hamming it up. She wore a smile Rourke had never seen before. She looked so completely happy that he almost didn’t recognize her.
He thanked Mrs. Bellamy for showing him some of the camp’s history. He lingered in the library until the rain let up, perusing the books, from Hardy Boys mysteries to birding manuals, classics by Thoreau and Washington Irving, and the inevitable collections of ghost stories. Long after the rain stopped, he sat looking through books, trying to imagine a different life for himself. When they were little, he and Joey always talked about joining the army together and traveling the world, but as they grew older, the fantasy dimmed. By the seventh grade, Rourke was already feeling the crushing weight of his father’s expectations, and Joey was now aware of the realities of working-class life.
Rourke wondered what Joey was doing, out on his solo expedition. It was something each boy was expected to do at least once over the summer. You had to gear up and spend an entire night alone on Spruce Island, a small island in the middle of Willow Lake. The head counselor, Greg Bellamy—the younger son of the directors—said, “It’s supposed to build character. And if it scares the shit out of you, at least it’ll keep your bowels open.” You were supposed to make a fire and contemplate deep things, although Rourke suspected Joey was just whacking off, which was pretty much the favorite thing of any guy their age.
The beeping sound of a truck backing up distracted him. He went to the window and saw a boxy white panel van. The sides of the truck were painted with a rushing river and “Sky River Bakery—Established 1952” in fancy lettering.
Rourke was already a fan of the camp’s kitchen, and the baked goods in particular. The bread and rolls, Danishes, donuts and desserts were incredible.
He was about to turn back to the book collection when he noticed three guys sneaking up on the truck. They were guys from his cabin—Jacobs, Trent and Robson—and he didn’t know them very well, but he knew they were jerks. They tended to pick on weaker kids, which meant they didn’t bother Rourke. In fact, they seemed to think he was one of them, even though he never joined in when they decided to pick on somebody.
At the moment, they weren’t bullying anybody but they were stealing. They had sneaked into the back of the truck and were helping themselves to all the cookies they could stuff in their mouths and pockets from the tall, rolling racks.
Jerks. This was somebody’s livelihood. Although Rourke had no experience at earning a living, he knew what it was like because of Joey and his father. Rourke knew that somebody driving a bakery delivery truck probably couldn’t afford to give away cookies by the dozen to rich kids at camp.
This put him in an uncomfortable position. If he told the guys to cut it out, he’d be labeled a snitch by his bunkmates for the rest of the summer. If he ignored what was going on, he’d hate himself for a coward.
When Trent picked up what appeared to be a whole blueberry pie, Rourke made up his mind. He was about to head outside when someone got out of the truck—a dark-haired girl who had apparently been sitting in the passenger seat. She was about Rourke’s age, maybe a little younger. Her hair was in two braids and she wore cutoffs, a red T-shirt and unlaced sneakers. She was just some girl.
Except, when he looked at her, Rourke felt funny, although he couldn’t put his finger on the reason why. She had a kind of old-fashioned, big-eyed prettiness and a quizzical expression on her face.
And right now, she was being robbed.
Maybe. He couldn’t hear what she was saying but the three guys sure as heck weren’t listening. They kept helping themselves to pastries and rolls. They were probably stuffed by now, but kept grabbing things anyway.
The girl was still talking. Maybe she was in on the prank with the guys. Maybe it was fine for her to stand by and watch them steal.
Or maybe Rourke was reading the situation all wrong.
He bolted for the exit and ran down the stairs and around the kitchen from the outside. Through a window he could see the truck driver—an older guy—sitting down and having a chat with Mrs. Romano, who ran the kitchen. They seemed oblivious to the goings-on outside. The tinny sound of a radio drifted to his ears.
He came around the side of the building in time to see…well, now. He wasn’t sure what he was seeing. Trent had the girl pressed against the side of the truck and they were…gross, were they making out? He was about to turn away in disgust when he noticed one small, telling detail. Trent wasn’t holding her hand, but her wrist, pinned against the side of the truck. Her hand was raised in fear like the hand of a drowning person about to go under for the last time.
Something happened to Rourke. He could have sworn he heard a popping sound go off in his ears. And he went all hot as though suddenly surrounded by a forest fire. “Get the hell away from her,” he said, a low-voiced command that caused all three of them to turn toward him.
Trent grinned. “Hey, McKnight. Have a donut and wait your turn.”
Rourke was close enough now to see
