Chapter 52: Finn

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I wake up with a knife pressed against my throat. It's not as terrifying as I thought it would be— my weeks at Lightlake have immunized me to threats of physical violence. "Both of you, get up," commands a harsh voice. I don't need a flashlight to see it's Clancey speaking. His trademark growl is unmistakable.

Slowly, I peel the sleeping bag off my legs and blink up at my attackers. The moonlight is just bright enough for me to see three people looming above me: Clancey, Eric, and Sean. All three of them are scowling at me in a way that means trouble, and I'd be freaking out if I wasn't so exhausted. I'm outnumbered three to one, and Clancey's easily got forty pounds on me— not to mention the other boys' impressive biceps, which are perfectly built for beating up on unsuspecting victims. If this turns out to be a fight, I won't be the one walking away smiling.

A realization pierces through the fog of my sleep-addled brain. The knife. It's the same one Owen announced was missing. Funny. The counselor didn't seem particularly worried when it was stolen, and now it's ended up pointed at my sternum.

I get up without protest. There's not much I can protest, not with a knife pressed to my throat, so I just do as Clancey says and follow him obediently outside of the tent.

"You too, Lockwood," Clancey snarls, as menacingly as he can without waking up the counselors. "We're not done with you yet."

One of the boys tries to shake Ronan awake, only to get thumped over the head with a flashlight. "Fuck!" cries Eric. The flashlight clips him on the shoulder and he scrambles out of the tent, cursing softly. "He fucking hit me!"

Ronan is fully lucid now, swinging his flashlight through the air like a billystick. "The next person who touches me is getting their fucking brains knocked out," he whispers furiously into the night. "I mean it. I won't fucking hesitate."

Clancey points the knife at him. "Keep your voice down and get out of the tent, Lockwood."

"You can stick that knife up your ass, Cleavon."

"Cut the attitude or I'll cut your throat. Do you really think you can beat my knife with your flashlight? Get the fuck out of the tent before I find somewhere to stick this in you."

"Fuck!" Ronan hurls the flashlight at the side of the tent, making the whole structure quiver. "You're all dead to me. You especially, Clancey." He claws his way out of his sleeping bag and shoves through the tent flap. "Do you have any idea how hard it is for me to fall asleep? Have you ever, personally, suffered from insomnia? I didn't think so! Come back and threaten us with a knife in the morning."

"Keep your voice down."

"You know, there are much better ways to get revenge. Much easier ways, too. There's really no need to go around disrupting people's sleep cycles like this. Why don't we all go back to our tents and figure things out when it's not two in the morning?"

"You talk too much."

"I get that a lot."

"How about this: you shut your mouth, and I don't tattoo my initials on your roommate's throat. Got it?"

Ronan's smile turns sharper than the edge of Clancey's stolen knife. "Whatever you say, boss." He mimics locking up his lips and throwing away the key. "My lips are sealed."

Now, Clancey looks ready to strangle him with his bare hands, but he somehow manages to power through his murderous urges and grinds out, "No more funny business, okay? Or I really will cut your roommate." To prove that he's not kidding around, he grabs me by the shoulders and holds the knife up to my neck. "One wrong word and he's dead."

Ronan gives him a thumbs-up. "Message received, loud and clear."

I shoot him a glare. It's the kind of glare that says, please stop encouraging this crazy guy to murder me while he has a knife to my throat, which may sound like an unreasonably specific kind of glare, but is actually pretty easy to understand. Ronan just smiles back, the kind of smile that doesn't really say anything but still puts a queasy feeling in your gut.

Help me, I mouth at him.

He just shrugs back.

"Alright. This is what we're gonna do. Eric and Sean are gonna show you where to walk, and you're going to follow." Clancey gives us both a stern look, reminiscent of a bad Hollywood actor putting on his best Drill Sargent impression. "We're going for a little hike through the forest and I don't want to hear any complaining. And if either of you gets some idea about calling for help, I'll gut you where you stand."

I raise my hand. Hard to do with a knife pressed to my throat, but I manage. "What are you planning to do with us, sir?"

He smiles knowingly. "If I told you, that would ruin the surprise."

"I don't like surprises."

"Too bad. Now, let's go. We don't have much time before the sun rises again."

Ronan sticks his hand in the air. "Can I offer an alternative plan?"

"No. You can shut the fuck up."

"Actually, I'm going to offer it anyway. How about you four go on your fun little hike, and I stay here and sleep. Sound okay?"

"No, it doesn't. Why the hell would that be okay? Stop whining. You're coming with us and you don't have a choice."

"Well, you see, I do have a choice. You've only got one knife and we all know that your boys can't overpower me. Technically, the one person you can force to cooperate is Finn."

I shake my head as hard as I can without slicing it open on the knife. "Cut it out, Ronan. The faster we get this over with, the faster we'll be able to go back to sleep."

"I would agree with you if there was also a knife being pointed at me, but fortunately, there isn't." Turning back to Clancey, Ronan says, quite cordially, "Take Finn. Tattoo your initials on his throat, or whatever the hell you want to do. Just leave me out of this."

"You double-crossing prick—" I start.

Clancey digs the knife deeper into my throat and I choke on my words. "I'm not kidding," he says in a low voice. "Come with us, or I'll cut him right here."

Ronan yawns. "No, you won't."

"Yes, I will!"

"Then do it. Prove to me that you have the balls; because right now, I don't believe you."

"You really don't care if I slit your friend's throat?"

"We're not friends. And no, not particularly."

Clancey almost looks impressed. "I didn't know you could be so cold-hearted. It's a shame you decided to turn traitor on me. We could have made a real team."

"Do you know what else is a shame? The fact that I'm not asleep right now." Ronan taps his wrist impatiently. "Let's wrap this up so I can get my solid eight hours."

Clancey shares a glance with Eric and Sean. The trio shuffles around for a bit before nodding their heads, coming to some sort of silent agreement. My heart sinks. I already know what their decision is going to be. When Ronan decides to take a stand there's no swaying him. He's too stubborn, and he always gets his way.

"Alright. We'll take Finn, for now. But this isn't over yet, Lockwood. Your reckoning is still on its way."

"I won't hold my breath," Ronan says dryly. "Sweet dreams, Cleavon."

Clancey removes the knife from my throat and brandishes at my chest— as if I'm going to try and make a break for it. (Where the hell does he think I'd go? We're in the middle of the fucking Alaskan wilderness. I don't exactly have a plethora of options.) The only thing I can do right now besides following Clancey's orders is to call for a counselor, but I don't want to risk snitching and then getting my throat slit for real.

My head snaps towards Ronan, and I fix him with my most hateful look. "You really are the worst roommate," I snarl at him. I'm furious— both at him, for betraying me like this (and after we agreed that we were cool, too!), and at myself, for letting my guard down enough to trust him. "I wish I'd never met you."

"Don't take it so personally. At Lightlake, it's every man for himself."

"You selfish bastard. I should have broken every damn bone in your face when I had the chance—"

"That's enough," Clancey interjects. He waves the knife at me threateningly. "The clock is ticking, and, more importantly, I'm getting tired of waiting. Let's go."

I take a moment to flip Ronan the bird, real good. Then I spin around and follow Clancey, Eric, and Sean into the woods.

Thus begins my second mandated march of the day. The Three Musketeers escort me out of the campsite and into the forest, with Clancey keeping his knife pointed at my back and Eric and Sean bringing up the rear to make sure I don't try to escape. The group functions like a well-oiled machine, striding through the woods with a sense of knowledge and surety that leads me to believe that this was all planned out beforehand. Wherever we're going, they know the way. I'm slightly honored to know they put this much planning into my demise.

"I bet you're wondering why we're bringing you out here," Clancey says cloyingly. "Are you scared, Fish?"

"Fuck you."

"That's some lip. I'd watch it if you don't want me to cut it off."

"Fuck. You."

He shoves me in the back, hard enough to bruise a few ribs. "Just shut up and march."

We walk for what seems like forever, all the way to the fringe of the forest where the trees grow more thinly and mossy rocks replace the usual pine-needle ground covering. The night air grows colder around us, and a swift breeze gusts through the open air and nips at my cheeks. When I stand on my tip-toes and squint into the darkness ahead of us, I see that the treeline ends abruptly, and beyond that, nothing. (My spidey-sense is really going off now.)

Eric— or Sean, I can't tell in the dark (or even in the daylight, really)— pushes me forward, and I trip unceremoniously over a rock, scraping my shoulder against the rough bark of a tree. "Walk to the edge," Clancey orders. "Now."

Another shove. I stumble towards the edge, the wind whistling in my ears. Predictably, it's the very same edge of the very same cliff that Owen specifically told us to stay away from. I remember his warning crystal-clear: At this height, the water would be hard as concrete if you fell. Since I'd prefer not to end my summer as a Finn-shaped pancake, this isn't a very promising image.

Cautiously, I peer over the precipice and stare down at the crumbling cliff face and the two hundred foot deep abyss below. At the very bottom, I can make out the faint shimmering of moonlight on the lake. It looks like an infinity away.

Clancey doesn't follow me forward. He keeps a safe distance away from the cliff, all while continuing to keep the knife pointed at my back. "Listen up, Fish." His voice, grating and discordant, ricochets off the rocks and trees and echoes across the abyss, a chorus of Fish, Fish, Fish fading eerily into nothingness. "And listen real well. Because I'm sick of your shit and it's time you got what you deserve. Jump. Or face the knife."

Jump, jump, jump. The word rings out across the quiet landscape like a gunshot. I don't process it at first; I'm still stuck in the mindset that this is all some ridiculous game, and any moment now Clancey will let me leave and I'll go back to my tent and sleep.

On the fifth echo, it hits me. Jump. He wants me to jump.

I don't know how to react to his. Jump. He wants me to jump? That's insane. It's a guaranteed quick death. I stare at the black water hundreds of feet below me and try to sort through Clancey's words. He can't be serious. This can't really be happening.

There's nothing but a ringing numbness in my head as I say, "You've got to be kidding."

"Nope. Not kidding." Clancey gestures at the precipice with the knife. "You heard me. The cliff or the knife— it's your choice."

"It's a three hundred foot drop."

"There's water at the bottom. You'll live."

"That's not how physics works. Like, at all."

Clancey gestures with the knife again, more angrily this time. "Yeah? Well, I don't think you understand how this knife works. Jump. Or I'll gut you."

"Shit, Clancey, do you really want me to die?"

Clancey takes a furious step forward. "You made me and my friends—"

"My friends and I," I correct him, because I'm that fucking tired, and Ronan is probably rubbing off on me.

"—shut your stupid, smart-ass mouth. You made us look stupid in front of the entire camp. You made me look like a fool." Clancey waves the knife around for emphasis, like some kind of crazed circus performer. "And you're gonna pay for it now."

"I didn't make you look stupid in front of anybody. You did that all by yourself."

"Shut up!" Clancey roars, so loudly that a flock of roosting birds takes flight and flaps away across the lake. "You think you're so much better than us, don't you? With your physics, and your grammar, and your girlfriend—"

"She's not my girlfriend. We're not dating."

"SHUT UP!" He lunges towards me, his face a violent purple. I sidestep, but not quickly enough. When he flails out wildly with the knife, the blade nicks my arm.

I hiss in pain. It's not a very deep cut, but it's bleeding and it hurts and now I really want to punch Clancey in the face. With the knife. (Sharp side first.) "What the fuck is wrong with you?" I shout. Now I'm really pissed-off. All I wanted was a solid night of sleep, and now I'm standing on a cliff's edge, being threatened and stabbed by some psychotic asshole who wants to kill me for pulling a prank on him. (And it wasn't even my prank! I'm just the one who took the blame for it!) "What the actual fuck, man?"

"Now you know how I felt during Capture the Flag," Clancey says, panting slightly. The tip of his knife is stained red with blood— my blood. He slashes it towards me again, making me stumble backward. The sharp motion sends pebbles skittering off the edge of the cliff. "It sucks, doesn't it?" He smiles at me, so broadly that I can see every crooked, desperately-in-need-of-braces tooth. "I'll give you one more chance to choose, Fish. The knife or the cliff."

(Fuck Ronan. Seriously, fuck Ronan. I'm going to die tonight and it's going to be all his fault.)

But before I can give an answer to Clancey's murderous demand, there's a resounding crash in the forest behind us; loud enough that both Eric and Sean jump in the air and Clancey spins around, blonde eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"What the hell was that?" Eric asks, vibrating nervously inside his two-sizes too big Guns and Roses concert shirt.

"Probably a bear," I say, wincing as I wipe the blood off my arm. "A very, very hungry bear. You know, the kind that probably eats teenagers for dinner."

Eric's eyes widen in fear, but Clancey quickly shuts me down. "It's not a goddamn bear!" he bellows, making the two boys jump again. "There aren't any bears in this part of the woods. It's probably just one of Fish's nosy friends looking for him."

"Actually, bears live everywhere. They hunt at night. And they can smell blood."

"He's lying, you idiots," Clancey shouts. "Now, go check out what made the noise!"

It doesn't take much to make the two boys bend to his will. They slink off into the forest, and Clancey redirects his attention back to me.

"Not laughing anymore, are you?" He tosses the knife from one hand to the other, something that would probably look cool if he didn't fumble the knife and drop it on the ground. "Shit. You didn't see that. Just— walk to the edge, already? And jump!"

I hold his gaze, feeling furious and terrified and sleep-deprived all at once. "No."

"Don't make me ask again, Fish."

"For the last time, my name is Finn—"

Clancey shoves me, and I stumble backward again. One of my heels slips precariously off the drop.

My heart starts to race. Clancey isn't fucking around anymore— this isn't tricks and pranks. This is life and death.

He notices my uneasiness and smiles like a crocodile; all teeth and no happiness. "Scared?"

My right foot jolts over a wobbly rock, knocking it off the precipice. I don't hear it plunge into the water below. "Only of your haircut."

"Oh, I am going to kill you for saying that."

I'm too close to the edge. I can feel the wind guttering against my back, a whisper of what I'll face if I fall. I'm only sixteen— I can't die now! There are so many things I haven't done. So many places I haven't seen. I'll never get to meet Sarah's fiance, never get to make out with Becca Fisher. Never see my family or friends again. Never get the chance to kick Ronan's ass for betraying me... again. He's going to get his beauty sleep and I'm going to get impaled on a rock at the bottom of this cliff. If I die here tonight, I'm totally turning poltergeist on him. I'll haunt his traitorous ass for eternity.

Clancey points the knife at my throat. "Have you made your choice yet, Fish?"

The tip of the knife digs into my skin, and I feel the sharp bite of metal, followed by droplets of warm blood inching down my neck. "You'll go to jail for this," I wheeze. I'm desperately trying to think of a way to talk myself out of this, to think of anything at all. "You're seventeen, already got a record. They could send you to jail— you might never go home again—"

He frowns at me. "What makes you think I want to go home?"

More pebbles slip out from under my feet. I have to gasp for air. "Your family—"

"Only got a mom. And she's never around much, anyways. I don't give a shit if I end up in jail. If it's because I made you jump it'll be worth it."

Empty air beneath my left heel. "Please—"

The knife digs deeper into my throat. I close my eyes.

And I hear a thud.

Slowly, painstakingly, I crack open an eyelid.

I'm not dead, which is nice. My throat is still intact and I haven't been pushed off a cliff, both of which are also a plus. Carefully, I open my other eye. There's a dark heap lying near my feet. It takes me a moment to realize what it is— no, who it is. It's Clancey, sprawled motionless across the ground. There's a long, bloody gash visible on his forehead.

Gradually, it dawns on me that I've been saved.

"You're welcome," a voice says in front of me.

My head whips up. There's a camper standing a few feet away from Clancey's unconscious body, the hood of their jacket pulled low over their face. That's when I realize: it's Becca. Because Becca would always be the one to save me.

Then the camper throws back their hood, and I see that it's not Becca at all. It's my dear old bunkmate, Ronan Lockwood.

"You're welcome," he says again. His voice is so distinctly different than Becca's that I don't know how I didn't notice it the first time. A walking stick dangles from his hand— the same stick he used to whomp Clancey. "Ungrateful asshole."

I'd glare at him if I wasn't so stunned. "How did you find us?"

"I followed you through the woods. None of you were very quiet, so it wasn't difficult." Ronan glances at my arm. "You're bleeding."

"I know."

"Christ, Finn." Ronan drags a hand through his hair. It's more spiky than usual, and sticking out at all sorts of angles. "You do realize I just saved your life, right? A little gratitude would be nice."

I must be in shock, because I can't look away from his face. I can't believe he's not Becca. I can't believe he

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