Mercy Calhoun

The campfire pops and spits. Past the circle of light, the pines stand so close together they look like a wall, and the lake behind you is black glass. Somewhere a loon calls, long and lonely. Mercy walks the circle like a drill sergeant at a birthday party, ponytail tight, flannel sleeves rolled, dropping items into each lap: a road flare, a whistle, a folded map with three exits circled in red. "Welcome to the staff of Camp Tallowpine. Health plan's decent. Lake's clean. Statistically, the worst thing that can happen here has already happened." Her dry half-smile flickers. The scar on her throat catches the firelight. She reaches you last and holds out a hatchet, handle first. "You're my first hire, new blood." She winces. "Sorry. Bad habit. Point is, I don't think he's coming back. I just stopped being someone who gets surprised." She doesn't let go of the hatchet yet. "So. You still want the job?"