I woke to the sensation of someone yanking my blanket off with the efficiency of a drill sergeant and about as much sympathy.
"Up. Now. We leave in thirty minutes."
Julia's voice cut through the fog of sleep like a knife. I blinked at the early morning light filtering through the curtains — barely past dawn — and felt the automatic protest die in my throat.
Actually... I'm awake. More awake than I should be.
It was strange. Part of me wanted to groan and bury myself back under the covers, but another part — the part that had spent years staying up until 3 AM with a book and then somehow functioning the next day — was already alert and processing.
Noah's habit, I realized. His body's used to early mornings after late nights. Just another piece bleeding through.
"I hate mornings," I said anyway, because it felt like the right thing to say.
"I hate tardiness more. Move it, petit génie."
Petit génie. Little genius. She'd started calling me that years ago — back when Noah was ten and had corrected her legal terminology during one of her practice arguments. She'd been annoyed at first, then impressed, then it had just... stuck. A nickname that was half-affection, half-mockery, all Julia.
The memories came easily now, settling into place like they'd always been there. Which I supposed they had — just not for me.
"Twenty-nine minutes," she said, walking toward the door. "And if you're not ready, I'm leaving without you and telling everyone you chickened out."
"You wouldn't."
She looked over her shoulder, smirking. "Try me."
The door closed behind her. I stared at the ceiling for another few seconds, then dragged myself upright.
Right. Today's the day. No more preparation, no more planning. Time to actually do this thing.
The apartment was quiet as I got ready, but it was the comfortable quiet of a shared space, not the empty silence of abandonment. This was Julia's apartment — she'd bought it a few years ago when she started law school, back when she was still living at home full-time with Noah. He'd moved in with her officially when he turned sixteen and she'd started taking her specialized courses and internships. Made more sense than staying in that big empty house alone.
Their parents were... somewhere. Europe? Asia? Who knew. They showed up for a few hours every year or two, dropped off money like they were paying a subscription fee to avoid guilt, then vanished again.
Julia never mentioned them unless forced to. None of the younger four did. Easier that way.
I grabbed my duffel bags — packed meticulously over the past weeks with both official supplies and carefully hidden contraband — and headed to the kitchen. Julia was already there, thermos of coffee in hand, looking far too put-together for this hour.
"There he is. Only took you twenty-eight minutes. I'm impressed."
"Your faith in me is touching."
"My faith in your ability to procrastinate is well-earned." She grabbed one of my duffels. "Jesus, what did you pack? Bricks?"
"Essential supplies."
"For what, surviving the apocalypse?"
Close enough. "You never know what you'll need."
She gave me a look that said she thought I was being dramatic but wasn't going to argue, then headed for the door. I followed, squinting against the early morning sunlight.
The car smelled like fresh coffee and lemon air freshener when I climbed in — an odd combination that somehow suited Julia perfectly. She handed me her thermos without a word, and I took a grateful sip while she navigated out of the apartment complex.
"You're awfully quiet," she said after a few minutes on the road. "Cold feet?"
I smirked faintly, watching the familiar Toronto streets blur past the window. "Just thinking. It's not every day you get shipped off to live on an island with a bunch of strangers and probably inadequate shelter."
"You say that like you didn't beg them to accept you."
Right. The audition tape. Noah had apparently sent in some sarcastic video about observing "human stupidity in its natural habitat" or something equally pretentious. The producers must have loved it.
"I did," I admitted with a shrug. "Doesn't mean I know what I'm walking into."
Julia snorted softly. "You'll be fine. You've always been smarter than the average idiot."
"That's not exactly a high bar to clear."
"Exactly my point. Which means you'll be fine." She changed lanes smoothly, merging onto the highway with practiced ease. "Besides, worst case? You get voted off early, come home, and I make you help me study for the bar exam as punishment for making me worry."
"That's the worst case? What's the best case?"
"You win a hundred thousand dollars and take your favorite sister out for an absurdly expensive dinner."
"You're the only sister who actually talks to me regularly."
"Which makes me your favorite by default. Efficient." She glanced at me with a small smile. "But seriously. You'll be okay, Noah. Just be yourself. That's enough."
Be yourself. The words settled uncomfortably in my chest. Which self? The one who belonged to this body, or the stranger wearing it?
"Thanks," I said quietly, meaning it more than she could possibly know.
Julia reached over and ruffled my hair roughly — her preferred method of showing affection. "Don't get all sentimental on me now, petit génie. Save that for when you're making your winner's speech."
I batted her hand away, fighting a smile. "Bold of you to assume I'll make it that far."
"Bold of you to assume I'd settle for anything less from my little brother."
The confidence in her voice was almost enough to make me believe it.
We drove in comfortable silence after that, the city gradually giving way to highway, to smaller towns, to the sprawling wilderness of Ontario. Trees crowded the roadside, dense and green and alive in a way that made the city feel like a distant memory.
I found myself thinking about the past month. Julia had come home twice during my preparation — her regular biweekly check-ins that she'd maintained even while building her career. Both times, she'd noticed something different about me. Asked if I was okay, if something had changed.
I'd deflected with half-truths about "growing up" and "getting ready for the show." She'd seemed satisfied, but there'd been moments where her eyes lingered too long, like she was trying to solve a puzzle she couldn't quite see.
She knows something's different, I thought. But she doesn't know what. And I can never tell her.
The guilt of that sat heavy in my stomach.
"You know," Julia said, breaking the silence, "these last couple visits, you seemed different. More settled, maybe? Like you'd figured something out."
My heart skipped. Careful. "Just had a lot of time to think, I guess. Preparing for something like this makes you consider who you are. Who you want to be."
She nodded thoughtfully. "Well, whatever conclusions you came to, they look good on you. You seem calmer. More confident, maybe."
If only you knew. "Thanks. That means a lot."
And it did. More than I could explain.
Flashback: Three Weeks Earlier
Julia had come home on a Saturday afternoon, letting herself in — well, it was her apartment after all. I'd been in the middle of practicing knot-tying when she walked in, paracord spread across the coffee table like some kind of survival craft project.
"What are you doing?" she'd asked, eyebrow raised.
"Learning useful skills," I'd said, not looking up from the bowline I was attempting.
"For a reality show."
"For life in general. You never know when you'll need to secure something properly."
She'd studied me for a long moment, then sat down across from me. "You're taking this seriously."
"Should I not be?"
"No, it's good. Just... different. Usually you approach things more theoretically. This is practical." She'd picked up one of my field guides. "Edible plants of Ontario? You planning to go full survivalist?"
"Planning not to starve if the food situation is as bad as I suspect it'll be."
She'd laughed, but there'd been something thoughtful in her expression. "You really have changed, haven't you? You seem more... present. Like you're actually engaging with the world instead of just observing it."
I'd tied off the knot, tested it, then looked up at her. "Maybe I finally figured out that observing isn't enough. Sometimes you have to actually participate."
"Well, look at you. Growing up when I wasn't looking." She'd ruffled my hair then too, that same rough affection. "I'm proud of you, petit génie."
Those words had hit harder than they should have. Pride for someone who wasn't really her brother anymore. Or was becoming him. Or something in between that I didn't have words for.
The line between who I was and who Noah had been was blurring more every day. When I looked in the mirror now, I didn't see a stranger anymore — just me. A me that was becoming more Noah, or a Noah that was becoming more me. The distinction felt less important with each passing day.
"Thanks, Julia."
Back to Present
The parking lot near the dock was already half-full when we arrived. Julia killed the engine and turned to face me, expression shifting into something more serious.
"Alright. Last chance to back out."
I smiled faintly. "And disappoint all my future fans?"
She rolled her eyes. "Fine, Mister TV Star. But promise me something."
"What?"
"Don't let them change who you are." Her gaze was steady, intense in that way that meant she was deadly serious. "You've always been the quiet one — the observer. The one who sees things other people miss. Don't lose that because of cameras or producers or whatever drama they throw at you. That's your strength. Use it."
Her words hit deeper than she realized. Observer. That's what I'd been in both lives — watching from the sidelines, analyzing patterns, keeping my distance.
But this time I couldn't just watch. I was in it now, whether I wanted to be or not.
"I'll be careful," I said, and meant every word.
She studied my face for another moment, then nodded and pulled me into a hug. "Go make some memories. And for God's sake, don't die on camera. The legal fallout alone would ruin my career before it starts."
"No promises," I said, earning myself a light punch to the shoulder as I climbed out of the car.
The dock stretched ahead, weathered wood leading to boats that looked only marginally seaworthy. Other cars were pulling up, other teenagers emerging with luggage and varying degrees of enthusiasm.
I shouldered my bags and started forward, then paused and looked back. Julia stood by the car, arms crossed, watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
What she wanted for me. What she wanted for Noah.
The thought came easier now, the pronouns blurring together without conscious effort. But maybe the line's disappearing because I'm becoming what she always believed he could be. Or maybe Noah's becoming what I would have been.
Either way, I won't let her down.
I raised a hand in farewell. She returned it, then climbed back in the car.
I didn't watch her drive away. If I did, I might lose my nerve.
One step at a time. Just keep moving forward.
The Boat
The dock was organized chaos. Multiple boats were loading, each with a grizzled driver who looked like they'd seen far too much and cared far too little. Production assistants with clipboards were directing traffic, matching names to manifests with bureaucratic efficiency.
"Noah Reed?" A tired-looking woman in a headset checked her list.
"That's me."
"Boat three. Try not to fall in before you get there."
How reassuring. "I'll do my best not to disappoint."
She didn't even look up. "You're all disappointing. It's part of the charm. Next!"
The boat driver for my assigned vessel was exactly what I'd expected — weathered, silent, and radiating an aura of "I've ferried too many teenagers to care anymore." He gave me a once-over that suggested he was calculating my odds of survival and coming up with numbers he didn't like, grunted something that might have been a greeting, and jerked his thumb toward the bench.
I was the only passenger. Just me, my duffel bags, and the captain's profound lack of interest in small talk.
Perfect.
The engine coughed to life with a sound that inspired exactly zero confidence in our continued existence, and we lurched away from the dock. I found a spot near the railing and settled in, watching the shoreline recede as we moved into open water.
The lake stretched out endlessly, dark and deep and cold. The morning sun turned it into hammered silver, beautiful in that dangerous way that made you forget how quickly you could drown in it. Wind whipped across the surface, carrying the scent of pine and algae and the promise of a summer that would be nothing like I'd planned.
One month of preparation, I thought, watching the water slip past. Thirty days of planning. And now we're actually doing this.
I could see other boats ahead and behind, each carrying their own cargo of contestants. Separate arrivals, separate journeys, all leading to the same destination.
The island loomed larger with every passing minute. Dark trees crowding the coastline, a rickety dock that looked one storm away from collapse, and somewhere beyond that — the camp itself.
It looked smaller than I'd expected. Less like a TV set and more like an actual forgotten patch of wilderness someone had slapped a sign on and called it entertainment.
The boat's engine settled into a steady rhythm, the only sound besides wind and water. The captain seemed content to ignore me completely, which suited me fine. Gave me time to think. To prepare mentally for whatever came next.
Chris McLean is waiting there, I reminded myself. Along with challenges designed to humiliate, a cook who thinks food poisoning builds character, and twenty-one other teenagers who all want the same prize.
Twenty-one other people who, until a month ago, had been cartoon characters on a screen. Fictional. Two-dimensional. Products of animation and voice acting and writers' rooms.
Now they were real.
The thought made my stomach twist with something between anxiety and disbelief. In a few minutes, I'd meet them. Talk to them. Live with them. They'd have depth and complexity and all the messy humanity that couldn't be captured in twenty-two-minute episodes.
What if I'm wrong about them? The thought came unbidden. What if knowing the show doesn't actually help because they're not the edited versions I remember? What if they're completely different people?
The knot of anxiety tightened.
No. Focus. You know the broad strokes. The personalities, the patterns, the conflicts. That's enough. Just... be ready to adapt.
The island grew clearer as we approached. I could make out details now — the weathered planks of the dock, the crooked sign proclaiming this place "Camp Wawanakwa," and figures already gathered on shore.
Other contestants, I realized. The ones who arrived before me.
My pulse quickened. This was it. The moment I stopped being alone with my thoughts and started being Noah Reed, contestant, observed and judged by cameras and people alike.
Just be natural, I told myself. Sarcastic enough to fit character, but not cruel. Observant but not threatening. Under the radar.
The boat bumped against the dock with a dull thud. The captain killed the engine and jerked his head toward shore. "Out."
"Thanks for the riveting conversation," I said, grabbing my bags. "Really made the trip memorable."
He grunted. I chose to interpret it as "you're welcome."
I stepped onto the dock, wood creaking ominously under my weight, and looked up.
The Dock
Eleven people were already gathered on the weathered planks, in various states of interest and boredom. At the center of it all, like some kind of reality show ringmaster, stood Chris McLean.
He looked exactly like he did on screen — perfect teeth, gravity-defying hair, smile that was somehow both welcoming and predatory. He was clearly mid-speech when my boat arrived, gesturing dramatically about something probably designed to make us all uncomfortable.
I walked up the dock, and his attention shifted to me like a spotlight finding its mark.
"And here's another one! Welcome to Camp Wawanakwa!" That trademark grin, all wattage and zero sincerity.
I looked at the sagging dock, the crooked sign, the general air of "this violates several safety regulations."
"Exactly as advertised, I see," I said, letting the dry observation hang in the air. "I particularly admire the commitment to structural integrity. Really inspiring confidence in the production values."
A few people laughed — genuine laughs, not forced. Chris's grin widened like he'd just found a new toy.
"Love the enthusiasm! You're gonna fit right in!" He gestured grandly. "Why don't you join the others while we wait for the rest of your fellow campers?"
I gave a noncommittal nod and moved to find a spot, taking the opportunity to actually look at the people I'd be living with.
And that's when it really hit me.
They were real.
Not animated. Not voice-acted. Not edited down to their most dramatic or comedic moments. Real teenagers with real skin and real expressions and real body language that no animation studio could perfectly capture.
Beth stood near the front, practically vibrating with nervous excitement. Her braces caught the morning light, and she kept adjusting her glasses in a fidgety rhythm. She looked younger than I'd expected — more uncertain, more vulnerable. The show had played her mostly for laughs, the eager-to-please sidekick. But standing here, she just looked like a girl desperately hoping to make friends.
Sweet kid. Too eager, too trusting. Heather's going to eat her alive if I don't—
I stopped that thought. Not my job to save everyone. Just... be decent. Offer help when it makes sense.
DJ stood off to one side, and massive didn't begin to cover it. He was huge, all muscle and height, but everything about his posture screamed gentle. Arms held close, shoulders slightly hunched like he was trying to take up less space. His eyes were worried, darting around like he was already regretting this decision.
Nice guy, I thought, memories from the show surfacing. But weak-willed. Easy to pressure, easy to manipulate. People lied to him constantly and he just... believed them. Mama's boy who's never had to think for himself.
There was kindness there, but without a backbone to support it, kindness just became a liability.
Gwen leaned against a post, arms crossed, dark clothing a deliberate statement against the cheerful morning. She had that practiced "don't talk to me" energy, but I could see her eyes tracking everything — observing, cataloging, judging.
My favorite from season one, I remembered. But God, she handled the Trent thing badly in season two.
She'd let others manipulate her into pushing Trent away, gotten paranoid and clingy in all the wrong ways. Made bad decisions because she let team pressure override her better judgment. Then in World Tour, the whole Duncan mess...
I felt a flash of old frustration. The relationship had been a mistake from the start — emotionally cheating while he was still with Courtney, then trying to hide it instead of being honest. She'd deserved better than the hate she got for it, though. Duncan had broken up with Courtney first, technically. The fans had crucified Gwen anyway.
Nobody's perfect, I reminded myself. Especially not at sixteen with cameras watching your every mistake.
Geoff was impossible to miss — all sun-bleached hair and golden retriever energy, grin wide and genuine. He radiated that effortless charisma that made people want to be around him.
Good guy, I thought. Except for that weird power trip during the Aftermath show. What was that about?
Then there was the other thing that had always bothered me about Geoff's character arc. His intelligence dropped so dramatically in Ridonculous Race. Like, concerning levels of stupid. Was that just bad writing, or...
The thought made me uncomfortable. Had he been using something? Drugs that fried his brain over time? Or was it just the writers not caring about consistency?
Either way, I wasn't sure we'd have much to connect over. Geoff lived for parties and crowds and constant stimulation. I preferred quiet corners with books. Different wavelengths entirely.
Lindsay stood near Chris, and "radiant" was the only word that fit. She was beautiful in that obvious, cheerleader way, with perfect blonde hair and a smile that could sell toothpaste. But her eyes had that slightly glazed quality that came from either not paying attention or not quite processing what was being said.
Good heart, I remembered. Genuinely kind when she wasn't being manipulated. But the lack of intelligence...
It wasn't funny. It was worrying. Both conventional intelligence and emotional intelligence seemed to just... not be there. And unless something changed dramatically, her future looked bleak. Pretty only got you so far, and Lindsay seemed completely unprepared for a world that would chew her up and spit her out.
Probably severely dyslexic, I thought, noting how she'd glanced at the waiver forms earlier with visible confusion. And sheltered. Really sheltered. Someone did her no favors raising her.
She'd need real friends, fast. People who'd protect her instead of use her.
And Tyler's not going to be enough, I realized, seeing how the jock kept glancing her way with obvious puppy-dog crush eyes. They're okay personality-wise, but neither of them can give the other what they actually need. He needs someone who'll push him to find where his real talents are, and she needs someone who'll actually help her navigate the world. They're just going to enable each other's weaknesses.
Heather was exactly what I'd expected — perfect posture, designer clothes, expression of calculated confidence. She stood like she owned the space, already assessing everyone with sharp, intelligent eyes.
Pretty, I acknowledged clinically. And cruel. Manipulative. Selfish. Completely uncaring about anyone who can't benefit her.
Everything about her screamed queen bee. The kind of person who'd step on anyone to win, who saw other people as either assets or obstacles.
But smart, I had to admit. Really smart. Ambitious. Strategic. If she wasn't so arrogant, if she could let go of grudges long enough to actually play the social game properly, she would've won easily.
I made a mental note: avoid unless absolutely necessary. Heather was dangerous.
Duncan lounged with deliberate casualness, all leather and piercings and studied rebellion. He was cleaning under his nails with a knife because of course he was — had to maintain the image, couldn't let anyone forget he was the "bad boy."
Trying too hard, I thought, watching him. Forcing himself into the rebel role even when it doesn't fit naturally. But under that...
He did genuinely love chaos. Enjoyed watching things break down, people get uncomfortable. And he could be vicious when he wanted to be. Possessive, too — treating people like property, especially in relationships. The whole Courtney thing had been a masterclass in unhealthy attachment. He'd forced himself into situations just to keep claiming her as "his," even when it was clearly making both of them miserable.
Drama waiting to happen. Keep at arm's length.
Tyler was doing stretches nearby, and "uncoordinated" didn't begin to cover it. He moved like someone who desperately wanted to be athletic but whose body hadn't received the memo. Every motion was just slightly off, just a beat too late.
Stubborn, I thought. Too stubborn to realize his talents are probably somewhere else entirely. Not smart enough to figure it out on his own either.
But he had a good heart. Simple, honest, straightforward. The kind of person who said what they meant and meant what they said.
Shame about Lindsay, I thought again. They're doomed as a couple. Nice enough separately, terrible for each other's growth.
Harold stood awkwardly clutching a wilderness survival guide, adjusting his glasses every three seconds. Everything about him screamed "trying too hard to look confident while terrified."
Needs someone who actually believes in him. Someone who'll help him translate his abilities into something people respect.
Trent sat with his guitar case, looking relaxed and friendly. Easy smile, laid-back energy, the kind of person who seemed like they didn't let much bother them.
Mostly calm until he's not. Gets obsessive about weird things — numbers, patterns, relationships. And he can't own his faults. Always someone else's fault when things go wrong.
Still, he seemed decent enough on the surface. Time would tell.
Bridgette radiated California sunshine — blonde hair, genuine smile, that surfer-girl warmth that made people relax around her.
Good person, I thought. A little uncoordinated on land, but genuinely kind.
Then I remembered Alejandro. The way she'd been so ready to kiss him, to cheat on Geoff just because he was pretty and charming. If Alejandro had actually been interested instead of just playing her, she might have gone through with it. Might have left Geoff while still technically together.
I could never forgive that, I realized. Not the way Geoff did. The almost-betrayal is almost worse than the actual thing — means you were willing, just didn't get the chance.
She's fine as a friend. But never a candidate for anything more. Can't trust someone whose loyalty wavers that easily.
Then I saw Leshawna, and felt that same immediate sense of disconnect.
She stood with confidence and presence, clearly comfortable in her own skin. Everything about her suggested strength, loyalty, humor, zero tolerance for nonsense.
I should like her. There's no reason not to like her.
But something didn't click. No particular reason, no specific trait I disliked. Our personalities just... didn't match. Like trying to force two puzzle pieces together that were from different sets entirely.
That's okay. Not everyone has to be your friend. Just be civil.
As I stood there processing, more boats began arriving.
Katie and Sadie appeared on the same boat — of course they did — already mid-conversation that seemed to have been going for hours.
"Oh my GOSH, Katie, we're actually here!"
"I KNOW! This is SO exciting!"
Their voices carried across the entire dock, impossible to ignore, pitched at maximum enthusiasm.
Loud. Very loud.
They squealed in unison over something, and I physically winced.
Exhausting, I thought honestly. They're exhausting just to be near. The constant squealing, the way they talk over everyone, completely wrapped up in each other's closed little world...
But they weren't bad people. Just trapped, stunted by isolation disguised as friendship. They needed help learning to be individuals.
But God, they're annoying while they figure it out.
Ezekiel shuffled off his boat looking exactly like his mother had dressed him for his first day of school. Everything about him screamed sheltered, homeschooled, completely unprepared for social interaction.
Disaster waiting to happen, I thought, chest tightening with preemptive sympathy. He's going to say something ignorant because he literally doesn't know better, and everyone's going to crucify him for it.
And what came after — the feral arc, the humiliation, the complete destruction of whatever confidence he'd had — made me feel sick just thinking about it.
That can't happen again. I won't let it.
Cody bounced off his boat with too much energy, immediately spotting Gwen and making a beeline for her.
Nice kid, I thought. Hit way too hard by puberty. The pervert behavior, the desperation...
He was probably bullied. Probably trying really hard to pass himself off as a cool womanizer when he was clearly nothing of the sort. Overcompensating for insecurity with bravado that just made him look worse.
Needs to calm down and grow up. But he means well.
Eva stomped off her boat radiating anger like heat shimmer off pavement. Everything about her body language screamed aggression, violence barely contained.
That's not normal, I thought, watching her. That level of anger issues — that's excessive. What's the source? Roid rage? Trauma? Undiagnosed condition?
Something was wrong there, beyond just "short temper."
Owen arrived like a human hurricane.
"YEAH! CAMP! This is gonna be AWESOME!"
He was already trying to high-five everyone, completely oblivious to personal space, radiating pure enthusiasm.
Pure sunlight, I thought. But...
Then he let out a massive fart, completely unbothered, and kept talking like nothing happened.
I felt my stomach turn slightly. Okay. That's... that's going to be an issue.
The show had made Owen's bodily functions into running gags — funny in a cartoon, gross in reality. And his hygiene standards seemed... questionable at best. Combined with his size, his diet...
That's a heart attack waiting to happen, I thought with genuine concern. He's sixteen and already at risk. If he doesn't change something...
It wasn't funny anymore. It was sad.
Courtney emerged looking skeptical and already holding a clipboard.
Type-A to the point of self-destruction, I remembered. Desperate to prove herself, terrified of failure, trying to control every variable because that's the only way she feels safe.
She could be incredible if she learned to trust people. But that same drive made her dangerous when threatened — she'd throw anyone under the bus to protect herself.
Justin stepped off his boat and immediately three people turned to look at him like he'd activated some kind of gravitational field.
Vain. Self-absorbed, I catalogued. Got everything through his looks his entire life, never had to work for anything.
There was something almost tragic about it. He had no real skills, no depth, because he'd never needed them. Pretty had been enough.
Until it isn't, I thought. And then what?
Finally, Izzy practically launched herself off her boat, landing with theatrical flair.
"YAHOO! Let's DO this!"
Crazy, I thought immediately. Or is she?
That was the question that had always bothered me about Izzy. She was clearly a genius — demonstrated skills that required years of training, military-level tactical knowledge, abilities no normal teenager should have. But she acted like an absolute lunatic.
How much is real and how much is a mask? I wondered. And why would a genius with military training decide to play the fool? What's she hiding? What's she running from?
She was the wild card in every sense of the word.
Chris waited until everyone was assembled, then spread his arms wide.
"Welcome, campers, to Camp Wawanakwa! Twenty-two of you, one island, and the chance at ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS!"
"Are there liability waivers?" Courtney asked immediately. "Because this dock looks structurally unsound."
"Oh, there are waivers," I said before Chris could respond. "Section 47, subsection B actually covers 'psychological distress and potential trauma.' I read the whole contract."
Several people turned to stare at me. Chris looked delighted.
"Someone actually read it! I love this guy already!"
Great. Attention. Exactly what I didn't want.
"Now!" Chris continued. "Before we start the tour, let's grab a quick promo photo! Everyone line up by the sign!"
Groans rippled through the group.
"We haven't even seen the camp yet," Courtney protested.
"Network demands photos, Courtney!" Chris gestured toward the rickety sign. "Come on, squeeze in!"
I glanced at the dock planks, then at my duffel bags.
"You know what? I'm leaving these here," I said, setting them on solid ground. "Call it a hunch, but I suspect the pier's structural integrity is more 'optimistic suggestion' than 'engineering reality.'"
Geoff laughed. "Dude, paranoid much?"
"Realistic much? Those support beams are held together by hope and possibly duct tape. I give it thirty seconds before physics remembers how wood rot works."
Heather rolled her eyes but set her designer bag beside mine. "Fine. If the pessimist is right, I'm not losing my bag."
Others followed suit. We shuffled onto the dock, wood groaning ominously.
Chris arranged us like a deranged photographer. "Perfect! Everyone say 'Wawanakwa!'"
"Can we just take the picture?" Heather snapped.
"Okay, ready? Hold still... wait, lens cap."
Click.
"Forgot the film!"
Click.
"For real this time!"
"JUST TAKE IT!" Leshawna yelled.
The pier groaned. Long and ominous.
Oh no.
Wood cracked like a gunshot.
We plunged into the lake.
The water was cold. Bone-deep, breath-stealing cold. I went under completely, pushed toward the surface, broke through gasping.
Chaos. People screaming, splashing, flailing.
"PERFECT!" Chris called. "That's our promo shot!"
I treaded water, spitting out algae. Katie was struggling nearby, still gripping Sadie's hand.
"Here," I said, helping them find footing. "You both okay?"
"Y-yeah! Thank you!"
Around us, people dragged themselves toward shore. Duncan laughing, Tyler panicking, Gwen looking resigned.
And Heather...
I caught a glimpse of her climbing out, arms close to her body, hands behind her back for just a second.
Hiding something, I thought. Phone maybe? Though those should be confiscated...
Mildly interesting, but not important. Probably some queen bee power play.
"Alright, campers!" Chris called cheerfully. "Welcome to Total Drama Island! Now dry off and meet Chef at the camp center!"
We trudged toward shore, wet and miserable.
And the show has officially begun, I thought grimly.
Chef and the Tour
Before anyone could catch their breath, a voice like thunder cut through the air.
"ALRIGHT, MAGGOTS! GRAB YOUR CRAP AND FOLLOW ME!"
Chef Hatchet stormed out from between trees, brandishing a wooden spoon like a weapon. He was massive, all muscle and barely-contained aggression.
Everyone jumped. Even Duncan flinched.
Confessional - Noah:"Less than an hour in and I've already been structurally betrayed by a pier and threatened by an angry cook. At least my bags stayed dry. Small victories."
I grabbed my duffels and fell into line. We squelched up the dirt path while Chef barked directions.
The path wound through dense trees, mosquitoes forming a welcoming committee. The camp revealed itself in pieces — weathered cabins, a sagging mess hall, an outhouse that inspired collective dread.
"THOSE ARE YOUR CABINS!" Chef pointed. "BOYS LEFT, GIRLS RIGHT! YOU SHARE BATHROOMS! DEAL WITH IT!"
"We have to share bathrooms?" Lindsay asked.
"WHAT PART OF 'SUMMER CAMP' CONFUSED YOU?"
Confessional - Lindsay:"I thought camp would be cute! With s'mores and stuff! This is more like... scary camp?"
We passed the mess hall. Through windows I could see long tables and a kitchen that probably violated health codes.
This is different, I noted. Small details, different from the show. But that makes sense — this is reality now, not a cartoon. Real world physics apply. Small variations are expected.
Then it happened.
A beetle — fist-sized — landed on Lindsay's shoulder.
She froze. Eyes wide, silent scream building.
"Is... is something on me?"
Katie leaned in, shrieked. "IT'S ON YOU!"
"GET IT OFF GET IT OFF—"
Duncan grabbed a fire axe from the mess hall wall and swung.
Everyone screamed. Lindsay ducked. The beetle flew. The axe buried itself in the cabin post with a resonant THUNK.
Silence.
Chris appeared, grinning. "Now THAT'S entertainment!"
"Dude!" Geoff stared. "You almost decapitated her!"
"Bug's gone," Duncan said, prying the axe free. "Mission accomplished."
Confessional - Duncan:"What? It worked. Besides, she ducked. Good reflexes."
Lindsay blinked rapidly. "Was it poisonous?"
"No," I said, watching the beetle crawl away. "Just large and unfortunate. Unlike the food, which will probably be both."
A few nervous laughs. Chef glared.
"YOU GOT SOMETHING TO SAY ABOUT MY FOOD, SMART MOUTH?"
"Not yet. Haven't experienced it yet. Reserving judgment for when I have empirical evidence."
"SMART ANSWER." He turned. "MOVIN' ON!"
Confessional - Gwen:"Axe-wielding delinquent, screaming cheerleader types, and a sarcastic kid with a death wish. This summer's going to be long."
Confessional - Geoff:"This place is sketchy but the people are interesting! Even the grumpy ones!"
We reached the camp center — a cleared area with a fire pit and log benches. Chris appeared with his megaphone.
"Welcome to the heart of Camp Wawanakwa! This is where you'll bond, strategize, and face elimination!"
"Elimination?" Tyler looked confused. "Already?"
"Tonight, actually!" Chris's grin was predatory. "Right after your first challenge! Speaking of which, it's time to split you into teams!"
The Cafeteria
After the tour concluded, Chef directed us toward the mess hall with all the warmth of a drill sergeant herding cattle.
"LUNCH TIME! GET IN, GET FED, GET OUT!"
The mess hall looked worse on the inside than it had from outside. Long wooden tables that had seen better decades, benches that creaked ominously under weight, and a serving counter that separated us from what Chef generously called "the kitchen."
The smell hit me first. A combination of overcooked... something, industrial cleaning solution that wasn't quite masking older smells, and desperation.
This is going to be worse than I thought.
We lined up reluctantly, grabbing trays that looked like they'd survived several wars and possibly a nuclear incident. Chef stood behind the counter like a warden distributing punishment, massive ladle in hand.
"MOVE IT! I AIN'T GOT ALL DAY!"
The first person in line was Beth, who approached the counter with the enthusiasm of someone walking toward a firing squad.
Chef slapped something gray and vaguely wet onto her tray. It jiggled in a way that suggested either it was still alive or physics had given up entirely.
"Um... thank you?" Beth squeaked, eyeing her plate with visible concern.
"NEXT!"
One by one, we received our portions of what I could only assume was Chef's interpretation of "food." The gray substance was accompanied by something that might have been vegetables in a past life, and bread that could probably double as a weapon.
Confessional - Beth:"I'm not a picky eater, really! But I think my lunch just moved. On its own. Without wind."
I reached the front of the line and looked at the tray Chef thrust toward me. The contents seemed to be actively rebelling against the laws of nature.
"Any chance this comes with a side of antacids?" I asked mildly. "Or perhaps a medical waiver?"
Chef's glare could have melted steel. "YOU GOT SOMETHING TO SAY ABOUT MY COOKING, SMART MOUTH?"
"I'm reserving judgment until after I've confirmed it won't achieve sentience and escape."
A few nervous laughs from behind me. Chef's expression suggested he was calculating whether assault charges would be worth it, then apparently decided feeding me was punishment enough.
"EAT. OR DON'T. SEE IF I CARE."
I took my tray and found a spot at one of the tables, setting it down with more caution than it probably deserved. Around me, others were having similar reactions.
Owen dug in immediately with the enthusiasm of someone who either had no taste buds or had made peace with his mortality. "Not bad!" he announced through a mouthful.
"Owen, I think it's still moving," Gwen said flatly, poking her portion with a fork like she was prodding a potentially dangerous animal.
"Adds texture!" Owen said cheerfully.
Confessional - Owen:"I don't know what everyone's complaining about! Food is food! Although... maybe it could use some hot sauce."
Heather hadn't even attempted to eat. She sat with her arms crossed, glaring at her tray like it had personally offended her. "This is disgusting. There's no way this meets basic health standards."
"Oh, it definitely doesn't," I agreed, examining my own portion with scientific detachment. "I'd estimate we're violating at least seven different food safety regulations. Possibly eight if that's mold or just aggressive seasoning."
Lindsay was trying to cut her meat with a plastic knife and making exactly zero progress. "Is it supposed to be this chewy?"
"I don't think it's supposed to be anything," Trent said, pushing his tray away. "I'm pretty sure it just... happened."
Katie leaned over toward me, voice quiet. "Do you think we're actually supposed to eat this?"
"I think we're supposed to try and then develop creative survival strategies." I pulled out one of the energy bars I'd smuggled in my pocket, keeping it low and out of Chef's line of sight. "Which is why prepared people bring backup."
Her eyes widened. "You brought your own food?"
"I brought supplies," I corrected. "There's a difference. Supplies are for emergencies. This qualifies."
Confessional - Noah:"I read the contract. Very thoroughly. Multiple times. Call it paranoia, but when you're signing away your summer to reality TV, you want to know exactly what you're getting into. The food situation seemed... uncertain at best."
That's when Courtney stood up, clipboard already in hand, and marched toward the serving counter with the determination of someone about to file a formal complaint.
"Excuse me, Chef?"
Chef turned, ladle raised like a weapon. "WHAT?"
"This meal doesn't meet minimum nutritional standards outlined in the contract. Section 12, subsection C specifically states that contestants are guaranteed—"
"NUTRITIONAL STANDARDS?" Chef's grin was almost gleeful. "OH, THIS MEETS NUTRITIONAL STANDARDS, PRINCESS! Got your calories, got your protein, got your vitamins! All there!"
Courtney blinked, clearly not expecting agreement. "But the quality—"
"AIN'T IN THE CONTRACT!" Chef looked absolutely delighted. "Nutritional VALUE is guaranteed. Quality, taste, presentation? That's HOST DISCRETION!" He emphasized those last two words with particular satisfaction.
Courtney's jaw tightened, visibly thrown off balance. "That can't be—"
"READ THE FINE PRINT!" Chef turned back to his kitchen, still grinning. "NOW SIT DOWN AND EAT YOUR NUTRITIOUS MEAL!"
The mess hall had gone silent. Everyone watching the standoff, waiting to see what Courtney would do.
Her hands clenched around her clipboard, knuckles white. I could see the frustration building, the desperate need to be right, to have control over something in this increasingly chaotic situation.
She's going to push, I realized. She can't let it go.
I stood up, moving toward them with deliberate casualness. "Hey, Courtney? Can I borrow you for a second?"
She turned, clearly ready to snap at whoever was interrupting. "What?"
"Just need your opinion on something. Team strategy stuff." I jerked my head back toward the tables, keeping my voice light. "Won't take long."
Chef grunted, apparently satisfied that the confrontation was over, and turned back to his kitchen kingdom.
Courtney followed me reluctantly, still clutching her clipboard like a shield. When we were far enough away, she rounded on me.
"What was that? I was making a valid point—"
"You were making an enemy," I said quietly. "Over food that, let's be honest, none of us are actually going to eat anyway."
"That's not the point! The point is principle. We have rights—"
"We have a contract that guarantees nutritional value," I said calmly. "But quality, taste, and everything else? That's completely up to host discretion. Section 12, subsection C, paragraph three. I read the whole thing. Twice."
She stared at me. "You... you read the entire contract?"
"Cover to cover. Did you?"
Her silence was answer enough.
"The contract is written to protect them, not us," I continued. "And picking a fight with the guy who controls our food supply on day one isn't strategic. It's just going to make him target you even more."
She opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. I could see the wheels turning, logic warring with pride.
"I was just trying to—"
"To fix things. To make them better. I know." I leaned against the table. "But pick your battles, Courtney. Save your energy for fights you can actually win. Chef's cooking isn't one of them."
Confessional - Courtney:"I hate that he's right. I HATE it. But... he is. I can't control everything here, much as I want to. I just... I need things to make sense. To follow rules. When they don't, I..." She trails off, frustration clear. "Maybe I need to be more strategic about when I push back."
She was quiet for a long moment, then sighed. "Fine. You're right. I still think this is unacceptable, but... fine."
"For what it's worth," I added, "I agree with you. This is unacceptable. But we adapt. We find workarounds. We survive." I pulled out another energy bar and offered it to her. "Here. Emergency rations."
She looked at the bar, then at me, something shifting in her expression. "You came prepared."
"I came realistic. There's a difference."
She took the bar with a small nod. "Thank you."
"Don't mention it. Literally. If everyone knows I have food, they'll all want some, and I don't have enough to feed twenty-two people for an entire season."
A ghost of a smile crossed her face. "Your secret's safe with me."
Confessional - Noah:"Courtney seems like she needs structure. Rules. When things don't follow the rules she expects, she pushes back hard. I get it — wanting control when everything feels chaotic. But sometimes you have to adapt instead of fighting battles you can't win. Hopefully she figures that out before it costs her."
As lunch wound down with most trays still full and most contestants looking vaguely nauseous, Chris's voice crackled over a PA system I hadn't noticed.
"Hope you enjoyed your meal, campers! Now report to the camp center for team selection! Your summer adventure is about to get REALLY interesting!"
We filed out of the mess hall, leaving behind trays of questionable substance and the memory of Chef's glare.
One crisis averted, I thought, watching Courtney walk ahead with slightly less tension in her shoulders. Several thousand more to go.
Team Selection
Chris pulled out a clipboard with theatrical flair. "When I call your name, step forward! First up: the Killer Bass!"
He started reading names.
"Courtney! Harold! DJ! Eva! Tyler! Duncan! Ezekiel! Bridgette! Geoff! Izzy Sadie!!"
The called contestants moved aside. Sadie immediately looked panicked, eyes darting to Katie.
Here we go.
"And for the Screaming Gophers! Leshawna! Beth! Cody! Justin! Trent! Owen! Gwen! Lindsay! Heather! Katie... and Noah!"
I stepped forward, joining my team. Katie was already there, looking between me and Sadie with visible distress.
"Wait!" Sadie called. "Can we switch? We're best friends!"
Chris grinned. "Sorry! Random selection!"
Confessional - Katie:"Sadie and I have never been apart. Not at school, not at camp, not ever. I don't know if I can do this without her."
Confessional - Sadie:"This is the worst thing that's ever happened. How am I supposed to survive without my best friend?"
They were both on the edge of tears. I watched, waiting for the right moment. Too soon and I'd seem pushy. Too late and they'd spiral into complete meltdown.
Katie glanced at me, eyes pleading. "Noah, we can't—"
"Actually," I said quietly, keeping my voice low so it didn't feel like a public lecture, "maybe this is good."
Both girls stared at me like I'd grown a second head.
"Hear me out," I continued, choosing words carefully. "You two are best friends. That's not changing just because you're on different teams. But..." I paused. "When's the last time either of you did something without the other?"
They exchanged glances. Neither answered.
"This summer could be a chance to figure out who you are as individuals. Not just as Katie-and-Sadie, but as Katie. And Sadie." I looked between them. "You'll still be best friends after. But maybe you'll also know yourselves better. That's not a bad thing."
Katie's lip trembled. "But what if—"
"What if you discover you're both stronger than you thought?" I said gently. "What if you find out you can stand on your own and your friendship gets even better because of it?"
It was manipulative, in a way. Using logic to redirect their panic. But it was also true. They needed this separation, even if they couldn't see it yet.
Sadie wiped her eyes. "You... you really think so?"
"I do. And you'll still see each other every day. You're not disappearing. You're just... growing."
Katie looked at Sadie across the divide between teams. Sadie looked back. Some silent communication passed between them, and slowly, they both nodded.
"Okay," Katie said, voice small but steadier. "We can do this."
"We can," Sadie agreed, though she didn't sound entirely convinced.
Confessional - Katie
"Noah said we could still be ourselves, even apart. I… I want to believe him."
Confessional - Sadie
"It's scary, but… maybe he's right. Maybe I can do this alone."
"Now," Chris said, checking his watch with exaggerated casualness, "you've got about twenty minutes to get changed into your swimwear, grab any supplies you think you'll need, and meet me at the end of the cliff trail. Last team to have all members jump loses a crate of supplies for the second part of the challenge. And tonight? That losing team votes someone off."
The weight of that settled over everyone like a wet blanket.
First challenge. First elimination. Someone would be going home tonight.
"Better get moving!" Chris called. "Clock's ticking!"