After dinner and a few guesses at charades, we sit around a glowing bed of red coals and roast marshmallows for s'mores. Squares of Hershey's chocolate and graham crackers line a flat, wide stone. The children build their own creations.

Bubba licks the last of his gooey chocolate-marshmallow-graham-cracker treat and cries, "Where's Charlotte?"

The adults do a head count, and not seeing the girl, Zack starts to get up.

I quickly stand. "I'll go look," I say with a firmness I'm not used to. I suppose my trying-to-motivate self is springing forward in this campsite. I hear Dr. Seuss's words in my memory: Today is your day! Today is your day!

"Hope a grizzly didn't get her," whispers Bobby.

"Hope a hawk didn't carry her into the river," Dougy teases.

"She's probably in her tent," Lisa says.

Joy has jumped up to scout out the tents. She unzips the door to one, pokes her head and flashlight inside, and calls, "Not in here."

"Remember not to go in the boys' tents," yells Bobby. "Remember them rules."

Earlier, before dinner, Zack laid down the ground rules: "Boys stay in their tents, and no going in the girls'."

Lisa twirled a strand of hair. Batting her long eyelashes and turning her head to look toward Dougy, she asked, "Is it okay for girls to go in boys' tents?"

Zack stood facing the group. "What do you think?"

She mumbled, "I don't know."

Zack set her straight. "There will be no going in the boys' tents if you are a girl. Is that understood?"

"What if my asthma starts acting all crazy and I need help?" Bobby asked.

"Then we'll help you. Did you bring your inhaler?"

Bobby nodded at Zack. "I'm hungry," he announced, his voice echoing across the wooded site. "Let's get this party started!"

After getting all the rules laid out, we ate dinner.

Obviously, Charlotte is not in any of the tents now.

I start out on my search. Immediately, I feel the coolness of the air. Earlier, I took my jacket off because by the fire, it was warm. I wish I'd thought to put it on before heading out to who knows where.

I'm not sure where to look for Charlotte. Last I noticed her, she was seated by Bubba, and then she went to the restroom. With my flashlight lighting the way, I walk along a path lined with crisp autumn leaves. Suddenly, the darkness scares me; the boldness I mustered just a while ago seems lost. How will I find her in this place void of bright lights? I enter the damp, sour-smelling washroom, call her name, open each stall door, watch a spider scurry across a roll of toilet paper, call her name again, and panic.

Dear God, I hope a bear hasn't chewed her in two. How will I ever tell Cindy? I envision her standing with a pen and pad at the Fryemont, all ready for an evening of waiting on tables, and instead learning that her sister has disappeared.

I leave the restroom and stand under a florescent light, wondering which way to go. The tall pines loom thick around me, their shadows dancing against the crooked paths strewn with pine needles and cones. I consider calling out her name; perhaps then Charlotte will come out from wherever she's hiding. Or it could have the opposite effect. Realizing I've come to find her, she could hear my voice and run farther away. I know one thing: I am not about to fail at this. Determined to find her, I breathe, "God, please help me."

A breeze picks up, rattling oak leaves across the path. I squint and wonder if my eyes are getting worse. Regena Lorraine once said that she could get me a discount on her leopard-spotted glasses. I wonder how long the kids would laugh if I appeared one day in those. But what I wouldn't give to be able to have some help in finding Charlotte now, and if it meant wearing goofy glasses, I'd gladly put them on. Sighing, I look around and hope the rumors of bears really are rumors. Coldness covers me. I want to go back to the warmth of the campfire and to Zack's smile. But I am so worried for Charlotte.

It is then that I hear a rustling sound coming from the left side of the restrooms. I listen; if I were a dog, my ears would be pointed and alert. Guided by the light from my flashlight, I carefully make my way toward the noise.

Seated at a picnic table behind the restrooms is Charlotte. Of course she wouldn't go far. Why did I worry? She's more timid than I am.

Approaching her, I whisper, "Charlotte."

Her head is on top of the wooden table, her arms flung over her hair.

I sit beside her on the damp bench, turn off my flashlight. "What's wrong?"

She moves a little but says nothing.

Okay, I think. We don't have to talk. At least I have found her and she isn't in the clutches of a bear or hawk. Cindy will be able to carry on with being a waitress tonight.

"They laughed at me." Charlotte's voice is muffled, yet it doesn't sound like she's been crying. "When I did the charade, they thought I was stupid."

"They laugh at everyone." They laughed at me as I tried to act out Little Bo Peep. Bobby was literally rolling on the ground, pine needles sticking to his jeans and jacket. I played the game. I could have refused like Joy did. She said she was too tired and then threw in her feelings about the game. When she used the word hate hate, Zack asked her to come up with a different word.

"I don't know any other word," she pouted.

"Try dislike dislike or or don't care for don't care for."

She frowned and said, "The game stinks."

He wouldn't let her get away with that, even though Bubba and Dougy were insisting we get the game started.

She gave in. "I don't care for charades."

Zack told her that was an improvement, and then we began the game.

"You played, at least," I tell Charlotte now. "That's what counts." It isn't whether you win or lose, but if you play. It isn't whether you win or lose, but if you play. The words come to me with a bold profundity, and I wonder if they're stitched on Regena Lorraine's tote bag. The words come to me with a bold profundity, and I wonder if they're stitched on Regena Lorraine's tote bag.

Shivering, I rub my hands over my arms and shake my legs to get the blood circulating. I'm tempted to get up and head back to my jacket and make Charlotte come with me. Take it easy Take it easy. The words to one of Jonas's favorite songs ring in my mind.

I let my body relax just when Charlotte pleads, "You will never leave me, will you, Miss Livingston?"

What does she mean? Leave her alone at this picnic table? Leave The Center? Leave town?

"You're nice." She reaches out and strokes my arm, her fingers evenly gliding over my scars. "I think you're an angel."

"Well, most people don't feel that way," I say. Like Darren. Like Darren.

"You never know about people. People are good at pretending."

"Pretending what?"

She stops touching my arm and flips her legs around so that she has her back to the table. "Showing how they really feel. You know, what's inside. The part only God sees."

I feel a warmth slither over me like a big quilt tucking me in at every side. The air is not so cold anymore.

"Have you noticed the stars?" I ask, because I don't know what else to say.

We lift our heads to see the wide sky of flickering lights. The moon has risen-round but not yet full, and tinted with a yellow glossy glow-just over the treetops. "

I like to think that all those stars are my prayers," whispers Charlotte. "God thinks they are so pretty he chooses to string them in the sky."

I consider her words. "That's beautiful, Charlotte."

"You think so?"

"Yes, I do."

"Well, don't tell Rainy or anyone that I said that."

"Why not?"

"They'll laugh at me some more."

I take her hand between my fingers and gently squeeze it. "You are beautiful," I say.

Quickly, she says, "No, I'm not."

"Oh yes, you are. Don't tell anyone, but when I first came to The Center, I thought you were the most gorgeous. And I mean on the outside and and the inside." the inside."

"You did?"

"Yeah. I even wrote about you in my journal."

She takes a long look at me, and even in the darkness I see her eyes dance. "I have a journal, too."

"That's great."

"It's the only place I can be myself."

I know all about that, I think as I picture my own journal with the apple pie cover. Me, the one who hated my writing class; me, becoming close friends with a journal and a pen!

"You can talk to me," I say. "I'm good at keeping secrets."

Her eyes peer into mine as though she wants to believe me. And I want her to.

We sit for a few silent moments, and then I convince Charlotte that together we can go back to the group and face whatever awaits. My confidence surprises Charlotte and makes me jumpy in my own skin.

Back at the campsite, Charlotte sits close to me by the fire. Earlier, Bubba and Bobby found sturdy logs and stones to place around the fire as chairs.

Zack smiles at us. Even when I look away from him at the others, I can sense his gaze in my direction.

"Charlotte is back," Dougy says. "Did you miss us?" He hands her a thin stick, which she reluctantly takes. "We're getting ready to cook up more marshmallows."

"We were waiting for you," says Joy. "You two took forever." She emphasizes forever forever like it's a disease. like it's a disease.

If you would learn to be more pleasant... I stop myself from completing the thought. I look up to see Zack smiling at me. I smile back.

"Bedtime," he announces after everyone has roasted a few dozen more marshmallows and eaten just as many without toasting. Eight bags wasn't too much, after all.

I volunteer to walk with the kids to the restrooms to brush their teeth and use the bathroom before bed. I am like the Bionic Woman-try and stop me. I feel I can do anything. This time I put on my jacket.

As I escort the kids along the path through the woods, everyone shining his or her flashlight, some aiming their beams in the pine trees, Darren switches his to high beam. The next thing I know he is in step beside me.

The girls rush into their side of the building, giggling about something Dougy said. Charlotte is with them, and I am glad to see she's included. No one better laugh at my girl, I think. Or they'll be messing with me.

Darren, still by my side, says, "I got scars, too."

I feel like I've just come out of the cold and entered a room that's warm. Who is he talking to? Certainly not me.

The boys have all entered the building. Only Darren and I are on the path.

"Mine are on the bottom of my feet." His face, lit by the single bulb shining from the front of the washhouse, holds a sincerity I have never seen from any of the children thus far. His dark eyes are glued to mine. This child who has refused to answer my questions and help in the kitchen, this kid who told me that cooking was a waste of time, has voluntarily spoken to me.

Once when I was seven, my teacher gave me a snowflake ornament crafted from the thinnest glass I have ever held. While the gift was an honor to receive, I was so afraid of dropping and breaking it that the ornament made me nervous. I feel like I did then right now. I don't want to drop and break Darren's new trust in me.

He doesn't seem fearful of me or angry at me. He continues to keep his face toward mine and says, "My scars are usually covered up so no one sees them." Then he gives me a look that transcends anything I can describe. It is as though he can see into my heart and knows everything about my scars even though he is only twelve years old.

I start to say something, but if I did I would be talking to myself. He has dashed into the boys' bathroom.

Rubbing my arms, I stand on the dirt path with my mouth hanging open.

When the girls come out of the building, their giggles echo across the campground. Soon the boys join them, and like a stampede, they take off toward our campsite, beams of flashlights bouncing off the trees and each other.

Rainy stops and turns toward me. "Aren't you coming back with us?"

I am still trying to catch my breath.

At eleven o'clock, the adults make sure the children are all accounted for. Robert, who has better luck with wood and matches than Zack or the rest of us, sits on a log by the edge of the fire pit and adds kindling to the dying fire. The kids have been sent off to their tents. There are two boys' tents and two girls' tents and a counselor in each tent with the kids.

"Settle down," Zack commands. "Get some sleep so you can wake up for breakfast and a hike tomorrow."

"What's for breakfast?" asks Bobby from inside the tent he is sharing with Bubba.

"Pancakes and sausage."

"Did we bring syrup?" asks the boy.

Zack looks over at me.

I say, "Yes, and butter. The real kind." I also packed the jar of pig's feet Mom sent me. You never know-perhaps I can get someone to try it, eat it up. I certainly won't be ingesting any.