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“How long was he in the water?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you see what happened?”

“No.”

“Was anyone with him?”

“I don’t know.”

“Has he regained consciousness?”

“No.”

Every answer felt like another failure. I should’ve known. I should’ve been there.

Yesterday, Trevor had been laughing. Yesterday, Mason had thrown cereal at him because Trevor kept stealing marshmallows from his bowl. Yesterday, I had told Trevor to stop worrying about the assholes bothering him.

I’d told him we were handling it. We. The counselors. The adults. The people who were supposed to protect him, and now he was lying on a stretcher with a mask over his face while strangers fought to keep him breathing.

Someone said helicopter. Someone else said hospital. Possible aspiration. Respiratory distress. Nonfatal drowning.

Words. So many fucking words. None of them mattered.

“Can I go with him?” I asked.

A paramedic looked at me as they loaded him on the gurney. “Are you family?”

“I’m his fucking counselor. He’s my responsibility.”

“We need his guardian’s information.”

“The camp has it.” I pushed to my feet and moved to follow them. “I’m going with him.”

“Sir—”

“I’m going.”

Maybe something in my face convinced him not to argue or maybe he simply didn’t have time. Either way, I got myself a little nod of acceptance just as the helicopter landed in the field near the lake. The noise was unbearable. Wind tore through the grass. Campers had begun gathering near the cabins, despite staff trying to keep them away.

And then I saw Mason. Barefoot. Still in his pajama pants. Running as fast as he could in our direction. “Trevor!”

Someone grabbed him before he reached the stretcher but Mason fought.

“No!” His voice tore through me, breaking my goddamn heart. “Let me go!”

“Mason.” I went to him and his wild eyes found mine. Jesus Christ. I wished they hadn’t because he knew. He looked at my face and knew how bad it was.

“What happened to him?”

“I found him by the dock.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know.”

“You were with him?”