headed right to Destiny’s. She wasn’t sure Destiny understood alcoholism, but she was certain she understood how tough it was for a kid like Townsend to be vulnerable in front of people.
Destiny did understand, and she spent a good half-hour trying to calm Hennessy down. It didn’t help much, but she had a slightly better perspective when she left. Heading over to the rec bungalow, she saw only four of her charges—Townsend and Devlin notably missing.
Devlin had been a puzzlement to her from the beginning. She was a little quirky and a little obstreperous, but otherwise hadn’t given Hennessy any trouble at all. She was in the poetry program, so Hennessy didn’t have much contact with her except around the bungalow. And even there she was usually in her room, writing. To Hennessy’s knowledge, she and Townsend were barely acquaintances—but something about their concurrent disappearances gave her pause.
She checked all of the usual spots, but neither of them turned up. It was only nine, and since it was Saturday night, they didn’t have a curfew. Quite a few of the kids stayed in the rec bungalow until midnight or one, watching videos and acting like typical adolescents. But Hennessy couldn’t rest until she found the pair.
Looking all around the compound, her worry grew until she was about to call security to help her search. She was headed back to Sandpiper when she saw movement by the boat dock.
Hilton Head was a mass of creeks, rivers, ponds, and marshes. Camp was located just off Calibogue Sound, a significant body of water that led to the ocean, but the camp bordered Broad Creek, a more manageable waterway. That’s where they kept a powerboat, seldom used, and secured under padlock to avoid having a camper harm herself. Suddenly the ancient engine coughed to life. Hennessy took off like a scalded cat, but she didn’t make it in time. When she reached the dock, all she saw under the light of the full moon was Townsend’s backpack, obviously left in haste. She picked it up and searched it, finding a set of tools wrapped in a soft leather case. She’d read enough detective novels to know what she held in her hands—a set of burglary tools, complete with files, a pry bar, and a lock pick.
The girls didn’t know they’d been spotted during their escape, and Hennessy plopped down on the end of the dock and called for reinforcements. Waiting for Destiny to arrive, she tried to remind herself to put this in context. She’d seen her daddy do the same kind of thing more times that she could count. Something set him off, then he was off to the races. You couldn’t always predict what it would be, but it was enough to make him throw away weeks, or even months, of sobriety over it. What Townsend had done that night was big. She’d admitted something that labeled her. She wasn’t just a girl who liked to party. She had a disease. A disease she had to cure herself of.
Hennessy knew she’d never truly understand what went on in an alcoholic’s head. No one could ever know what caused a person to slowly destroy herself. But you had to maintain some empathy, no matter how angry you got. Alcoholics had enough self-hatred. Adding more to the mix never helped.
Destiny arrived, panting from exertion. “Where are they?” she asked, her eyes wide with anxiety.
“Right there.” The moon was bright enough to catch the image of a small boat, bobbing in the creek. They’d gone inland, away from the sound, like they were trying to be safe. Hennessy was confident they were just letting off some steam—if they didn’t take off again and head for deep water. “I think she’s turned the motor off. They’re probably just talking.”
“Or drinking or smoking grass or shooting heroin.” Destiny sank heavily onto the dock, and dropped her face into her palm. “We should call the police. Or the…what?” She looked up. “Coast Guard?”
“The police can bring them in, but I don’t think we have to do that
Destiny did understand, and she spent a good half-hour trying to calm Hennessy down. It didn’t help much, but she had a slightly better perspective when she left. Heading over to the rec bungalow, she saw only four of her charges—Townsend and Devlin notably missing.
Devlin had been a puzzlement to her from the beginning. She was a little quirky and a little obstreperous, but otherwise hadn’t given Hennessy any trouble at all. She was in the poetry program, so Hennessy didn’t have much contact with her except around the bungalow. And even there she was usually in her room, writing. To Hennessy’s knowledge, she and Townsend were barely acquaintances—but something about their concurrent disappearances gave her pause.
She checked all of the usual spots, but neither of them turned up. It was only nine, and since it was Saturday night, they didn’t have a curfew. Quite a few of the kids stayed in the rec bungalow until midnight or one, watching videos and acting like typical adolescents. But Hennessy couldn’t rest until she found the pair.
Looking all around the compound, her worry grew until she was about to call security to help her search. She was headed back to Sandpiper when she saw movement by the boat dock.
Hilton Head was a mass of creeks, rivers, ponds, and marshes. Camp was located just off Calibogue Sound, a significant body of water that led to the ocean, but the camp bordered Broad Creek, a more manageable waterway. That’s where they kept a powerboat, seldom used, and secured under padlock to avoid having a camper harm herself. Suddenly the ancient engine coughed to life. Hennessy took off like a scalded cat, but she didn’t make it in time. When she reached the dock, all she saw under the light of the full moon was Townsend’s backpack, obviously left in haste. She picked it up and searched it, finding a set of tools wrapped in a soft leather case. She’d read enough detective novels to know what she held in her hands—a set of burglary tools, complete with files, a pry bar, and a lock pick.
The girls didn’t know they’d been spotted during their escape, and Hennessy plopped down on the end of the dock and called for reinforcements. Waiting for Destiny to arrive, she tried to remind herself to put this in context. She’d seen her daddy do the same kind of thing more times that she could count. Something set him off, then he was off to the races. You couldn’t always predict what it would be, but it was enough to make him throw away weeks, or even months, of sobriety over it. What Townsend had done that night was big. She’d admitted something that labeled her. She wasn’t just a girl who liked to party. She had a disease. A disease she had to cure herself of.
Hennessy knew she’d never truly understand what went on in an alcoholic’s head. No one could ever know what caused a person to slowly destroy herself. But you had to maintain some empathy, no matter how angry you got. Alcoholics had enough self-hatred. Adding more to the mix never helped.
Destiny arrived, panting from exertion. “Where are they?” she asked, her eyes wide with anxiety.
“Right there.” The moon was bright enough to catch the image of a small boat, bobbing in the creek. They’d gone inland, away from the sound, like they were trying to be safe. Hennessy was confident they were just letting off some steam—if they didn’t take off again and head for deep water. “I think she’s turned the motor off. They’re probably just talking.”
“Or drinking or smoking grass or shooting heroin.” Destiny sank heavily onto the dock, and dropped her face into her palm. “We should call the police. Or the…what?” She looked up. “Coast Guard?”
“The police can bring them in, but I don’t think we have to do that
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