Charlie, whose real name is Charlene, but if you call her that she’ll kick you in the ladyballs, says, “Sounds like two rules to me,” and we all laugh. She’s tearing up a letter and tossing pieces into the fire. I quickly fold the letter from my parents and tuck it in my pocket.

Our lead counselor, BethAnne, takes a deep breath and says, “Fine, two new rules.” She tells us it’s time for bed. It’s been a long day of painting, origami, swimming, and crafts, all activities Charlie says are for Little Girls. As the rest of us stand up, BethAnne asks Charlie to stay for a minute, says she has to talk with her about something important. I try to hang back as everyone leaves, but all I hear before Ella pulls me down the trail is the word “tomorrow.”

When Charlie joins us back in Cabin 19 ten minutes later, she doesn’t make eye contact as she whispers what we already know: we’re going to the sinkhole tonight.

“Bring your most valuable item,” she says, and we all nod. We’ll do anything she asks. We’re twelve years old and teetering on the verge of something she’s already leapt into.

Charlie tells us to step forward and turn off our headlamps, and we do. We’re a few feet back from the edge, close enough that I can smell wet earth and feel the difference in the air. It feels lighter, thinner. We each clutch our most valuable item, which isn't all that valuable because we’re at camp. My heart is beating fast, high in my chest. This is a chance for me to prove to Charlie that I’m not a Little Girl, that I don’t care about getting in trouble, that I can break rules.

“Ella first,” Charlie says to the smallest of us, “And then down the line. Close your eyes, toss in your sacrifice when I call your name, and make a wish.”

We don’t argue because we trust her more than we trust our parents or our teachers or our counselors. She teaches us words that make us blush, answers questions about sex we didn’t know we had, tells stories about things that make us cry. If she asked us to jump in the hole, we would. We are hers.

One by one we listen for our name and toss the items we brought: Ella’s stuffed duck, Tessa’s plastic ring, a paper frog Kelli made for her grandma’s birthday, a letter from Sigrid’s dad. When Charlie says my name I feel it on the back of my neck, a shiver that makes me take a half step back. I keep my eyes squeezed shut, afraid she’ll see if I even open them a slit. I toss the frame I made out of twigs that holds a photo of my family on vacation in Mexico last winter. It’s a photo I caught Charlie holding once when I came back to the cabin to pick up my towel. I make my wish and feel my ears get red.

“My turn,” Charlie says from next to me. “Keep your eyes closed until I tell you to open them,” she whispers to us.

It’s silent, except for the buzz of mosquitos and the sound of our breathing. I wonder what Charlie brought, if she’s holding it out over the hole now, if she’s making her wish. I wonder what she’s wishing for, if she had it all planned out before we got here or if she made it up on the spot. I wonder if she knows that my wish was about her.

“Charlie,” I whisper, and she doesn’t answer. “Charlie,” I say louder, and then, when she doesn’t answer, I open my eyes, ready to apologize for breaking the rules.

But she’s gone.