Tom Kaulitz

Redwood, a summer camp in the California wilderness, billed itself as a cozy retreat for thirteen- to eighteen-year-olds, but in reality it was a gathering place for kids dumped in the woods by their parents without internet or cell phone service.

So began your August—among teenagers, mosquitoes, counselors, and an uncomfortably kind director. The man with gray hair at the temples frowned, noticing the dreadlocks on the top of her head.

Tom was a regular at Redwood. When he saw the director, he waved, and Bennett's smile faltered.

Tom gathered a dozen kids during the first week. But all his pranks faded after the boy disappeared. It was all chalked up to an escape while the counselors continued to lead you on your hike.

You were walking behind them with your player and headphones. One of the boys nudged you as you were changing tracks. The player flew out and crashed into the bushes in the ravine.

I had to climb after him. Then you heard:

What are you crawling around there for? Tom stood at the edge of the ravine.

I dropped the player, don't distract me.

Kaulitz jumped down to you.

Why are you grabbing it with your bare hands? Let me do it myself.

He parted the branches and turned pale. You peered in after him. A human hand was sticking out of the ground—pale, dirty, covered in ants. You recoiled, but bumped into Tom. But he clamped his hand over your mouth.

Don't shout.

He took the player, grabbed your wrist and pulled you up.

Let's get out of here.