The reversal was striking, strange, bizarre--sitting at a table in the dining hall rather than walking past the cavernous room to take a peek at who was working that day. None of it had changed. The building was as stunning a mix of woodsy and high-end sophistication as it'd been a decade and a half ago, its open timber beams spiraling upward into the skylit apex at its center. Everything was set beautifully, from the daring white tablecloths to the periwinkle hydrangea arrangements at the center of each lazy susan, the folded napkins and shiny cutlery to the crystal glassware. And the weirdest thing of all was being waited on by the dining hall staff, local teens, none of whom Kevin recognized but to all of whom he felt instantly connected (though surely they would've scoffed to hear it). The whole thing was so disconcerting that he couldn't even bring himself to order, although he'd been in no place to eat for the past few days anyway, and so the woman he'd once known as Lyra ordered for him.

Her name was actually Francesca Kensington, and she'd been a member of the resort her whole life. In fact, her Nan, as she'd called the older woman at their table, was on the board, as was her aunt, and the two women had raised her. She'd recalled seeing them--Kevin and the others--years earlier. She was younger than they were, and surely none had paid her much attention, but all of the resort members, even the children, had known of the four selected teens from town. The young people in particular had been asked to keep away, to allow for the natural course of events--a course they'd been taught about in the event that it occurred--but Francesca, as she'd told Kevin, had always felt a fascination toward them. And when she'd been asked to help, just as David had been asked to help, she'd done so without reservation. She'd not apologized for lying to him, not the entire time Kevin had stayed with her family. Much like Heather, he'd been disinclined to speak much with any of them and had spent most of the last few days alone. He'd walked the resort road back and forth, wandered a bit in the woods, sat on the upper deck of the house in which he stayed and watched the lake, the lighthouse, the trees and squirrels, and he wondered vaguely at the unimportant self-important world beyond the abyss. Francesca and others left him alone; they knew he'd capitulated, he supposed.

This was the first time he'd been in the dining hall since he himself had been a teen. He wasn't sure why Francesca had wanted him to come. She'd even brought him what she termed "decent" clothing, which he'd passive-aggressively refused to wear. When he saw Heather walk in, though, he was fairly certain he understood. She entered and sat down along the windows with a man--David, Kevin thought, her husband. Well, not so much her husband. Heather had been used as well, hadn't she? It wasn't a surprise. Nothing would've surprised him now, or so he'd thought.

As the resort arrived, dined, and socialized, Kevin sat in silence, unaware for the most part that he spent more time watching Heather across the way than watching anything else. She had her back to him, and yet he felt relatively sure that she was as reticent as he. No one around him, not even the stunning Francesca, could draw his attention, but as the meal wound down, as night fell dark and the heavy air crept in through the open windows, Kevin's apathy permuted into irritation. He reached into his pocket for his pack and lighter and, much to the chagrin of the Kensington women around him, lit up. They'd told him more than once not to smoke cigarettes on resort property--cigars or pipes only!--but he had no interest in gratifying them. Ignoring their complaints, Kevin stood abruptly and, without a word to those at his table, crossed the emptying hall. Upon reaching his destination, he gripped Heather's upper arm with his empty hand and pulled her out of her chair. She momentarily protested until she realized who'd taken hold of her, and then she fell slack and followed his lead.

"Hey, you can't just take her--"

"Keep your shit together," Kevin snarled at David, who'd also risen. He inhaled and breathed a cloud of smoke across the table. "I'm going to have a conversation with the mother of my child, and you're going to leave us the fuck alone."

David's mouth hung halfway open, Kevin's words having stopped him completely. The man glanced at Heather's slim stomach as if he'd find answers there, but she and Kevin were already scooting around the vacant chairs and tables toward the double doors leading out into the lobby.

"It's all right," Kevin heard Francesca calm David behind him. "They won't leave."

Even as her words irked him, Kevin knew she was right. They had nowhere to go, and not only that, but he didn't even want to leave. He had no inclination to do anything at all except talk with Heather.

They crossed the lobby, he sliding his hand down her arm to entangle his fingers in hers, while the woman at the desk watched them. Then they exited the dining hall altogether, stepped out into the cooler night air. Random adults young and old mulled about on the lawns in their shoulder sweaters and sport coats and diamond studs, laughing and talking and slowly meandering toward their awaiting cottages, inviting one another in for drinks and more gossip and who-knew-what-else. Across the way, toward the pool and casino, children's laughter sounded, and Kevin knew the counselors were over there playing their night games. It was July third, one day before Jeremiah and Cris would join them, one day before they'd have to face the horror once again though for the last time.

"Are you all right?" Kevin asked Heather, drawing her aside toward one end of the deck where no people had gathered.

A soft golden light from the dining hall window behind outlined Kevin's back and shoulders but illuminated Heather's worried blue-green eyes, the flush of pink across her slightly freckled cheeks. "I-I'm fine. But what about you? I was so worried--the last time I saw you."

Kevin had no desire to enmesh himself in a conversation about what he'd been feeling for the past few days. He knew he'd screwed up with Heather, that he'd allowed Lyra's sudden arrival to overwhelm him and, therefore, hurt the first woman he'd cared about in maybe forever. But he didn't want to talk about it. Here she was in front of him again, and that same desire to protect her in all her fragility, her ridiculous determination, expanded within him. Concomitant with that tenderness, however, was the perfect knowledge that there was nothing either of them could do to avoid what was fast approaching. So, unsure what to say, Kevin said nothing at all, but he was glad when he heard Heather continue.

"I've been talking with that woman," she said, "Suzanne."

Francesca's grandmother, the man reminded himself.

"Kevin . . ."

He watched Heather as she licked her lips nervously. Beyond her, in the darkness across the road, he was sure he saw two children who'd broken away from the others, standing in the shadow, side by side. But he looked back at the woman before him. "What? What is it?" She was clearly anxious, but she shouldn't be. "Heather," he assured her, drawing near to her and speaking with hushed fervency. "You can tell me. We've been going through hell together since high school, even if we didn't know it. Whatever it is, tell me."

Heather closed her eyes, took a breath, and pushed out the words: "We don't have to go. She says there's a way we don't have to do it."

Of all the things Kevin had expected to hear, this was not one of them. "What? What are you talking about? Here, here--sit down. The bench, there. Sit down and talk to me, all right? I'm not going to be angry."

Heather listened, settled herself. "She spent a lot of time telling me the--the history of it all. The things they do, why they do them. She told me that it--the thing, you know, the worst of it--she said it sort of, kind of wakes up, every so often, and they basically . . . well, it's hard to explain. But they essentially put it back to sleep. Because if they didn't, it'd get worse. What I mean is, it would keep taking people, and maybe, even, it would come out from down there, and if it did--"

"No. No. It--it couldn't--"

"Why not?"

Kevin stared at Heather, an unattractive befuddled expression on his face. The cigarette he'd forgotten suddenly burnt his fingers and, swearing, he threw it down and stubbed it out. That woke him from his stupor. Shaking his head, Kevin attempted to understand. "So, what? You're trying to tell me they're doing a good deed or something? Keeping everyone safe? And all that evil shit they do--killing and abusing and manipulating--what, that's all actually good?"

"No. I don't know. Not good but . . . but not evil, exactly?" Heather put her face in her hands. "Oh, I don't understand it, either, all right? We saw them do what they did to Ignacio, and that night they made us--we were naked and alone in front of all of them, and they just threw us to it like, like we were some sort of bait or appetizer or something. And it's all horrible, but she told me why, and how they've learned to please it, and if they didn't then, then it'd do worse!"

The man gripped her shoulders, shook her so she revealed her face, which shone damp in the light. "Heather. They're doing it again. They've gotten to you. They're fucking with your head. They don't even know it, not like we do."

"Suzanne does. She was just like us, the last time!" she muttered weakly. Her shoulders sank. "I don't want to go back, Kevin. And I know you don't want to, either. And she--she said we don't have to go, again, that it won't make us, as long as . . . as long as we . . ." Heather turned sheepishly toward the deck floor.

"What?" Kevin shook her, hard.

"You said you wouldn't be angry!"

"I'm--I'm not. I'm not! I'm sorry. I just want you to finish your sentence. What do we have to do?"

Lifting her chin toward him once more, Heather regained her composure. "We stay. We--we stay here. We join the resort."

Kevin's brow lowered. His face was difficult to read. His eyes flicked toward the two children over Heather's shoulder, and he was surprised only momentarily to see them still standing there before understanding crept across him like a black cat across his path. The shapes of their heads--of one head in particular--wasn't it, even in its obscurity, shaped something like a horse? Or a donkey . . .

They were waiting for an answer, surely, just as Heather was.

"It's crazy," was all he could manage at first. And then he stood and walked to the railing, got a better look across the way. All the diners had wandered off toward their cottages, and as Kevin fumbled about for and lit another cigarette, he pondered something he'd never thought of before: what it might be like on the other side of it all. To be in on the secrets and the control, the horror . . .

He hated it. It was absolutely disgusting. It was everything he'd never wanted. These people and their pretension and their money and their acrimonious relationship with the town--how could he become the very object of his own vilification? But there was Heather, and their child, and while he knew none of it mattered, while he'd wanted finality, an end to the infinite despair, there was going to be a child . . . his child . . .

The children across the way seemed to turn to one another, whisper or laugh--he couldn't tell. And he himself from their perspective was merely a glowing red circle against the black.

Turning to Heather, Kevin studied her sorrowful, painful innocence. "If we do it," he avowed in all seriousness, "I want to name our kid Arthur."