The whistle blows before the sun comes up.

  It’s the kind that cuts straight through sleep. Sharp. Metallic. No warning. The kind that makes you briefly consider committing a felony.

  Someone groans from the bunk below me. Another kid swears under his breath. Across the cabin, blankets start rustling like a nest of disturbed raccoons.

  “Up! Up! Move it!”

  The door slams open and the lights snap on. A counselor stands in the doorway, silhouette sharp against the gray morning outside.

  Four months here and they still wake us like the building’s on fire.

  To be fair, if the building were actually on fire, I’m not totally convinced they'd tell us.

  I sit up slowly, letting the others scramble past me. Cold air slips through the cracks in the cabin walls and settles straight into my bones. November in the mountains doesn’t bother pretending to be warm.

  Boots hit the floor. Jackets get pulled on. Someone bumps my shoulder trying to squeeze past.

  Outside, the ground crunches under our shoes as we line up in the yard. Frost clings to the dead grass, thin and white like it grew there overnight.

  The counselors are in a good mood. Heh…. dont like that.

  That’s the first thing I notice.

  They’re smiling.

  Not big smiles. Just enough that it looks wrong on their faces. Like someone told them they had to look pleasant but forgot to explain how.

  Kids whisper in line.

  “They’re announcing something.”

  “My counselor said some of us might go home.”

  “Shut up.”

  Hope spreads fast when you’re trapped somewhere.

  It’s basically a virus.

  I keep quiet, exchanging glances with Renna and Vaelan.

  If there’s one thing I’ve learned in group homes, detention programs, and the occasional “youth development initiative,” it’s that adults rarely smile like that unless they’re about to ruin someone’s day.

  The mess hall smells like powdered eggs and burnt oatmeal. Same as every morning. Metal trays scrape along the serving counter while the kitchen staff shovel food onto plates like they’re filling buckets.

  But today they’re giving us more than usual.

  Extra toast.

  Real butter.

  That’s the second thing I notice.

  The kid next to me grins like he just won the lottery.

  “Dude,” he whispers, stuffing food into his mouth. “We’re getting out of here.”

  Maybe.

  But something about it feels staged.

  Like a birthday party thrown for someone who doesn’t know they’re about to move away.

  Or those stories about soldiers getting steak dinners right before deployment.

  Morbid comparison? Sure.

  But in my defense, this place hasn’t exactly encouraged optimistic thinking.

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  After breakfast they herd us outside again.

  All the cabins.

  Rows of kids standing shoulder to shoulder in the frost. Breath fogging the air.

  The director is waiting at the front.

  She stands there like she belongs more than the mountains do.

  She doesn’t come down here often.

  Tall. Neat coat. Black skirt. Silk blouse that somehow doesn’t wrinkle even in the cold. The fabric shifts in the light—dark enough it almost looks like armor.

  Her hair is pulled back so tightly it looks like it might hurt, dark brown twisted into a bun that doesn’t move even when the wind picks up.

  The lipstick is the only bright thing about her.

  Ruby red.

  It makes it impossible not to watch her mouth when she talks.

  She’s younger than most of the staff. Mid-thirties maybe. But the counselors watch her the way soldiers watch a commanding officer.

  No one fidgets when she’s around.

  No one talks.

  Her eyes sweep across the rows of kids slowly.

  Sharp.

  Focused.

  Like an eagle circling above something small enough to carry away.

  For a second it feels like she’s looking straight at me.

  Then she moves on.

  But not very far.

  Her gaze pauses a few spots down the line.

  I follow it without moving my head.

  Lloyd.

  He’s standing the way he always does—hands loose at his sides, posture relaxed like he’s waiting for a bus instead of standing in front of two hundred nervous teenagers and a woman who could probably legally ruin all our lives.

  Most kids look away when staff stare at them like that.

  Lloyd doesn’t.

  He just looks back.

  Not challenging.

  Not nervous.

  Just… looking.

  Like he’s observing her the same way she’s observing us.

  The director tilts her head slightly.

  The way someone might when they’ve spotted something interesting.

  Then she keeps scanning the rest of the line like nothing happened.

  Maybe it’s nothing.

  I tell myself that.

  Probably just another weird camp moment.

  Still…

  I make a mental note. Just in case.

  “Good morning,” she says, hands folded like she’s giving a speech at a school assembly instead of standing in the middle of a wilderness camp. Her voice isn’t loud. It doesn’t have to be.

  “I’ve been reviewing your progress.”

  Some of the kids shift on their feet. Someone behind me starts crying quietly before she even finishes the sentence.

  “We believe in growth here,” the director continues. “Accountability. Responsibility.”

  She starts praising cabins.

  Cabin B for discipline.

  Cabin F for leadership.

  Names get called out. Kids stand a little straighter when they hear their group mentioned.

  Then the director smiles.

  “And today,” she says, “some of you will be returning home.”

  The yard explodes.

  Kids shouting. Crying. Hugging each other like they just survived a war.

  Counselors start reading names off a clipboard.

  One by one, kids run forward.

  Some of them already have their bags waiting.

  Backpacks.

  Shoes.

  Jackets.

  Like the camp packed everything before the announcement even happened. They are sent to change in the bathrooms, their clothes probably confiscated… cant leave evidence of what happened here. Of these itchy dresses that caused a lot of kids heat stroke in the summer months.

  The next thing I notice…They knew exactly who was leaving. The buses are parked beyond the treeline. Engines already running. Kids sprint toward them like they’re afraid someone might change their mind.

  By the time the last name is called, the yard feels empty.

  Too empty.

  I start counting.

  Bunks. Faces. Cabins. Just a habit.

  Group homes teach you to keep track of numbers. Beds open, beds filled, who got transferred, who got kicked out.

  Kids leave those places all the time. But someone always replaces them. Beds stay empty. here, no one new arrives. No vans. No intake line. No nervous kids stepping out with garbage bags full of clothes.

  Just silence.

  I count again. Forty-three kids are gone. Out of at least two hundred. Seven of us left from our cabin.

  The counselors watch the buses disappear down the dirt road.

  Then one of them smiles.

  “Alright,” the director says brightly. “Chore assignments will be adjusted.”

  That’s when the feeling in my stomach settles into something colder.

  At the group home, kids left because they were getting better.

  Here?

  I don’t think we were supposed to.