The cafeteria smelled like burnt toast and disinfectant, but that wasn’t what caught my attention. It was the way the adults moved, how some of the kids shifted after they took lunch away… some could stand to skip a meal. Or two. They’d live. I noted every motion, every glance—who looked for approval, who would follow, who’d shatter like glass.

  And it seemed I wasn’t the only one to notice. Off to the side, three of them were making plots and deals. I watched. Early alliances crumble once desperation sets in… statistically. But this group looked different. I’d require more data before drawing conclusions. They all had secrets waiting to be exposed. A game was afoot, and now I had the perfect subjects to make it more interesting.

  I noted their body language. The redhead was definitely the leader of the two girls. The male—a likely interloper—offered… protection, maybe? No. Despite his charm, there was an edge to him. Calculating. Information-driven. That matched their expressions. I continued to watch, though I didn’t expect the deal to be struck by the little goth girl. That would shift the dynamic.

  So a “smart” jock, a wild redhead, and a goth. How could that ever fit together? Statistically improbable. More data. I’d need more.

  I was so lost in calculation that I almost didn’t notice the whistle.

  “Ohhhkayyy, campers! It’s time to go over the details of your job! Everyone split up into your respective duties in a timely fashion!”

  The fake niceties dripped from their voices. It made me sick.

  I walked over to animal fecal clean-up, sliding directly behind my inquiry. I knew it was a risk, but given my stature, I shouldn’t be noticed as much as the others. I’d need to open my mouth every now and again to avoid being seen as a quiet tattle-tale. But I’d hold off until I saw who ratted everyone out first.

  The pens were worse than I expected. The stench hit before I even stepped inside. Some kids gagged; others complained. The counselors wrote down each reaction, their eyes pausing on me. As I watched them, I knew they were making the same inferences about my behavior. At the last second, I scrunched my nose in disgust and made an effort to breathe through my mouth, pinching my nose as dramatically as possible. A simple nod. A note taken. Then on to the next kid.

  Two could play at that game. I won this round.

  I noted who froze, who wrinkled their noses, who tried to do the bare minimum. Efficiency and tolerance for discomfort were the first things to measure. The counselors barked orders, snapping instructions that most of the group didn’t fully process. I filed weaknesses and strengths mentally, slotting each person into categories: liabilities, useful, disposable… or likely snitch. I wouldn’t know for a week. For now, most of them thought this was a bluff. Reality would correct that.

  The redhead from before had already taken charge of her small group, barking orders with the same fake bravado she’d been displaying earlier. The male interloper hovered near her, offering a hand where none was needed. Calculating, as always. The little goth girl stayed silent, methodical, cleaning with almost robotic precision. She would be interesting to observe over time.

  Every motion mattered. A dropped tool, a pause too long, a glance toward a counselor—each was a data point. I moved deliberately, matching the rhythm of the group while keeping my eyes on everything: the counselors, the kids, the layout of the pens, the water troughs, the feeding schedules.

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  That’s when it happened—ahead of schedule.

  One of the kids—mousy, quiet, scared—started scooping water into her mouth when she thought the adults didn’t notice.

  They did.

  Her hand froze mid-scoop, water trembling at the edge of her cupped palm. Eyes wide, heart hammering in her chest—I could almost feel it from where I stood. Then the counselor’s gaze snapped to her, sharp as a blade. Every thought she’d tried to hide, every small rebellion, laid bare.

  Her face went pale. She stuttered, tried to hide the water, but it was too late. The adults moved with precision, their cruelty stripped to its core. Panic bloomed in her eyes. Her mouth opened to protest, but no words would save her. Every twitch, every tiny shake of her hands, every desperate glance—it was textbook fear.

  The others shifted uncomfortably. Some looked away. A few snuck glances, pretending it wasn’t happening. I watched as the balding one approached. He unbuckled his belt with methodical efficiency—a clear signal of control. He grabbed her wrists and guided her toward the building. The precision of every movement made the terror absolute. She repeated “sorry, sorry, sorry” like a broken record, her voice quivering.

  Her screams echoed across the property.

  Reactions rippled outward: horror, fear, nausea, the instinct to hide. Not the redhead. She was a raging storm—unpredictable, furious. The little goth grabbed her hand and shook her head. A quiet signal: not here. Not right now. Go back to work. It isn’t worth it.

  I made note of that. An interesting dynamic. The storm wasn’t the one in control. If anything, the little goth girl was a handler.

  When the cleanup was finally over, the counselors led us back to the bunks. They hovered over our belongings with the practiced efficiency of predators sniffing for weakness. My bag was lifted, shaken, patted down. They lingered on the mundane—pens, notebooks, a small towel. Nothing raised suspicion. Everything I needed for fire, water, survival, even concealment, remained hidden. I passed inspection. Nothing confiscated.

  I watched other kids squirm under scrutiny, filing mental notes of my own—who panicked, who lied badly, who might cheat next time. The counselors were predictable. They relied on fear and confusion. That gave me the advantage. Every glance, every whisper, every mistake was usable data.

  By the time the bags were returned and the counselors moved on, I had reconstructed the entire room in my head: exits, blind spots, hidden alcoves, water sources, choke points. Everything cataloged. This wasn’t just cleanup or inspection—it was practice. A rehearsal.

  From the accumulated data, I reached one conclusion: they were testing us. I couldn’t yet determine what for, but the intent was unmistakably nefarious. An imbecile could see that.

  Lying on my bunk, I replayed the day. Fake hellos. A welcome designed to create false safety, especially for at-risk kids desperate to believe in it. Then the clothing change—a humiliation ritual disguised as routine, stripping us of individuality and making dehydration inevitable under the warm July sun and the weight of wool dresses. The meeting. More fake niceties. Then the meal was taken. Group punishment. A demonstration. A reminder of control.

  But the testing remained unanswered.

  What are they looking for?

  What do we become if we pass?

  And where did that girl go?

  There were too many variables. Not enough answers.

  I counted us again before lights out.

  Eleven.

  There was no scenario where that number increased. I could already identify three where it decreased. Eventually, there would be one.

  That was where the snitching came in.

  Everyone wanted to win.

  Very few understood how to remain in the game.