Liz Moore

Of all the campers, Louise thinks. Of all the campers to go missing.

Who knew the origins of the word?

“Which word?” someone said.

“Panic,” said T.J. But no one raised a hand.

She explained. It came from the Greek god Pan: the god of the woods. He liked to trick people, to confuse and disorient them until they lost their bearings, and their minds.

To panic, said T.J., was to make an enemy of the forest. To stay calm was to be its friend.

It came from the Greek god Pan: the god of the woods. He liked to trick people, to confuse and disorient them until they lost their bearings, and their minds.

Because there was always a part of her—despite her understanding, cultivated over years of such disappointments, of where she would fall in any social hierarchy—there was always a part of her that hoped that this time would be different. That some graceful, lissome boy or girl would have the patience and acuity to pick Tracy out of a crowd, take notice of one of the positive qualities that she infrequently allowed herself to number: her sense of humor, or her drawing ability, or her singing voice, or her loyalty, her devotion to anyone who showed her even a modicum of interest.

is complex, and often painful; to be an animal is comfortingly simple and good.

propelled from her chair by sheer boredom, Alice had decided to take a walk.

he funny part is,” said Barbara, “they invited all these artists and writers and actors. But they’re the entertainment. The decoration. No one takes them seriously.”

“Kissing someone—someone you want to kiss, I mean—is like living inside the best song you ever heard. It’s the same feeling.”