I'm one of the lucky ones, by the way.

Sure, it might not seem like that, but that doesn't mean anything. There's maybe as many as twelve things in this world that are exactly as they seem, but probably no more than that and almost definitely less.

Just . . . try to keep that in mind. And don't be quick to judge — well, any of us.

When I say I'm lucky, I mean that I've never known the sting of a cold metal blade pressing into my thigh.

I mean that I've never clenched my teeth as I wrenched one of my fingers back hard enough that the crack echoes around the back room.

I mean that I have no plans to be found slumped in a corner, dead-eyed, with blood sheeting down from my wrists.

That's why my cabin doesn't like me much . . . they love me, obviously. I'm family. But a lot of them don't like me.

Claire does. Claire is and will always be my favorite sister. She doesn't know the blade or the break or the blood either. She knows about our cabin, but she doesn't know any of those things.

She knows she doesn't have to — she's smarter than that. Smarter than me, I think.

Smarter than the ones who taught me — or tried to teach me, anyway. Joke's on them, I guess, 'cause I'm as lazy as ever.

Don't get me wrong, I'll stay up for days if I have to, but I wasn't putting up with their bullshit. If I stay up, it's not because they taught me how to do it properly.

And none of the ones who taught me are around anymore. One killed by monsters. One killed himself. You know the drill.

And it was quite a blow when they got bumped off (or bumped themselves off), because we always seem to come in threes.

First it was Jay, Kelly, and me. Then it was just me.

That scared the shit out of me, by the way. It being just me.

And I thought it'd get better when we got more medics — more born medics, anyway. Those of us with better healing skills kind of just get pushed into it, but that's a different story.

Anyway, then Aiden came along. Great healer, but lazy as fuck. I said to Claire that he never gets up off his ass, and that's not a joke.

I was the one who trained him. I should have taught him better.

And I didn't. Now he's just about useless.

I was determined not to make the same mistake with Gracie.

She's new, only been here about a month. She's really young, too. Almost ten. Year-rounder, or she will be, as soon as it's been a year. I've never asked why she wants to stay.

I will say, though, that if it's worse than our cabin, I wouldn't go to her house for the rest of my life off.

Well. Maybe I would.

Point is, I'm not fucking this one up. This one will be a healer, a real one. Not like my brother Aiden, who's two years younger than my fifteen and thirty years more innocent.

I did him the greatest favor of his life, and he will never know it.

Gracie, though, that's a different story. As I said, she's nine, but I've already been working her harder than I've ever worked Aiden.

I said I would be better than my cabin was when they trained me. That was some bullshit. I'm no better. I'm worse, because I know damn well what I'm doing and I'm not stopping.

Claire doesn't know, and I plan to keep it that way. I don't want her to have to know this.

There's a secret that only I know, in my cabin.

It's not Claire. It's me. I'm the head counselor.

I'm two months older than Claire, and nobody knows it. As far as I'm concerned, they never will.

I lied about my age. I knew I had no business being in charge.

Well, that backfired.

It's two o'clock in the morning. It's late — very. Or early, depending on how you want to look at it.

I'm working the night shift, anyway. No time for thinking. And no sleeping for me tonight.

I'm not supposed to leave the infirmary, not unless I'm making a house call. Which I'm not. But I'm leaving anyway.

I'll have to avoid the harpies, which is always risky. There needs to be some kind of pass we can use so that the harpies know that we're healers and we're allowed to be out after curfew, but there's not.

So I finish up with the stitches and stand up, joints in my knees popping and creaking. I would have saved the stitching for Gracie, but the slice wasn't really that bad.

I try to save the really dangerous shit for her. The harder she works, the more resistance she'll build up. Like exercising. Lifting weights. Only as she gets older, she'll realize that she never really gets to put the weights down.

It's fucking cruel to do this to a kid, I know that. I don't even know how to describe how shitty it makes me feel. But I shouldn't — I grew up this way, and Jay, and Kelly, and, to some extent, everyone in the cabin. Just not as much as the medics.

It is tradition.

Or I wouldn't be doing it.

It's even worse that I'm trying to tell myself that now, but the cold from the December air is biting at me as I cross the campground, and I haven't slept in days, and I don't much give a shit about anything.

Now it's your turn, little sister, I think as I slowly push open the creaky door of the cabin, doing my best not to wake everyone else — even Aiden, although he deserves it more than Gracie does.

Gracie sleeps on the far side of the cabin, on the bottom bunk. The whole bed is carelessly shoved into a corner — an afterthought. Springs stick out the creaky mattresses and the sun never shines in there, even on the brightest days of the year. It's degrading, all of it.

And I should know. I've been sleeping in the top bunk on nights I'm allowed to sleep for the past four years.

I lay a hand on Gracie's shoulder. It's gentle, but I know it'll snap her awake as if I've dug my nails into her skin.

And it does. Her eyes immediately open, and she springs out of her bed and to her feet, straightening her thick wavy hair and scrub shirt. She always sleeps in her clothes — she never knows when she's gonna have to wake up.

She's awake instantly. She always is. She knows that if she waits, the fingers will start to tighten like vises, nails cutting bloody crescents into the skin, until she's crying for mercy. She's a fast learner.

"Gracie," I say softly, "chin up."

She raises her chin, shaking, and meets my eyes. This is always my least favorite part of the night. I hate her expression, the way it looks like she's being crushed under something heavy and trying desperately to wriggle out from under it.

She doesn't look like that all the time, but she does on these nights. I always do, which is why I try my best to look like a sleepy lizard. It's not very noticeable when your eyes are half-closed.

"Sorry," she says, in a quiet, wavering voice. I think this is her least favorite part of the night too, but at least she meets my eyes to see her expression mirrored.

I'm not crazy, I swear. I don't have a choice. And when Gracie's a little older, I don't think she'll blame me the way she does now.

I just shake my head. This is hard enough when I don't have to listen to her terrified apologies. "Don't be sorry. Let's just . . . let's go."

She nods and follows me as we leave the cabin, hurrying to keep pace with me. It's not that I'm a fast walker, but I have long legs and Gracie's a small kid. We all were, when we were her age.

Then we turn out taller than most people our age.

But, bygones.

The infirmary is silent when we finally enter. Everyone's asleep, thank God. Should make administering anesthesia easier.

Gracie swallows hard as she takes in the hellscape in front of us. Injuries today – a lot of them. Bad. Again, thank God. That means I don't have to . . . yeah.

"How many?" Gracie asks. She's trying to inject her voice with steel, but it breaks, and I know it's a lie. I'll have to teach her how to control that. But that's not the point.

I hate delivering death blows like this, but I do.

"All of them."

Some part of Gracie seems to fall into the abyss, and she closes her eyes softly for a moment. I can almost hear her. I thought we were a family, Ean. I thought you loved me.

I have to briefly close my own eyes, because I can't hear it.

"I'm tired," she whispers, her voice trembling. She's close to tears. Fuck.

"Don't cry," I snap, still unable to look. "All of them. No begging. No questions. I don't want to hear it. And if you cry, it'll be all the campers from this week."

I hear her take a shuddering breath, pull herself together, and hurl herself hack onto the cliffside. I can't see it, but I know her back straightens, her chin lifts, and there's a steely bit in her gaze, although it's only a cover for the pain and fear.

I scare her, I know.

But I can't hear her begging me to stop. None of them can.

"Yes, Ean."

– Ean Arret