If I had a map, I would have known we were in a southern region of the Appalachian Mountains. But all I had to orient myself was an endless stretch of identical dirt and trees, dappled in the afternoon light. Miles went by without any sign of human habitation before we finally reached a double-wide trailer plopped down right in the middle of nowhere.
My captors led me straight inside, where a middle-aged woman had clearly been waiting for my arrival. A plaque on a small desk spelled out an unremarkable name, Jill or Ann or Jan. She ran her icy eyes up and down before landing on my face.
“Elizabeth, I assume?”
“Don’t bother,” the male escort said. “She doesn’t talk.”
My captors signed the paperwork Jan handed them and turned to me. “Well, this is good-bye,” the man said. “Good luck, kid.”
Just like that they were gone, leaving my life as abruptly as they’d swooped into it. I felt a pang of something like fear or regret. Stockholm syndrome had crept up on me and I was almost sad to see them go. Sure, they’d tormented me all day and not one minute had passed without me actively hating them, but they were the devils I knew. The fear of whatever was about to happen to me next sat in my gut in the shape of a massive knot. I wanted to run after them and beg them to kidnap me again.
“Don’t you even think about it,” Jan said. I realized I’d been looking longingly at the door. The woman eyed me suspiciously while she riffled through the folder with my name on it. I didn’t know what was in there at the time, but I’d later learn that she was looking at a series of waivers. Apparently, my parents had signed quite a few of them. Documents that listed a series of risks that could befall your troubled teen should you decide to ship them off to the woods. Short-term injury, long-term injury, psychological damage, death.
We are not accountable for any bad shit that happens, basically. Do you accept?
Yes. My parents signed them all. We accept.
I don’t believe they knew quite what they were signing off on, though. Because no one really did. It was a time before the internet could offer up ready feedback and quick access to real accounts. Before the take-downs circulated—exposés on the wilderness therapy industry. Programs like mine that operated from the most remote and unchecked places in the country. Where no one was watching and tragic things happened all the time.
Cause of death: Dehydration. Cause of death: Hyperthermia. Cause of death: Internal bleeding. Head trauma, spider bite, severed artery, suicide by hanging, suicide by pocketknife.
Cause of death: My first-ever strip search?
“Clothes off and arms up,” Jan said. “Let’s get this over with.”
“I’m not taking my clothes off.”
“Then we’ll do it the hard way. And don’t try anything stupid. Cops are a phone call away.”
I could tell I didn’t really have a choice. I stripped down until I was wearing only my underwear.
“‘Clothes off ’ means clothes off. All of them.”
Humiliated, I got completely naked.
“Spin around. Arms out.”
This is insane.
“Three rotations.”
How is this even legal?
“Squat and cough.”
Squat? And COUGH?
I shut my eyes and waited for Jan to finish humiliating me. “You’re clear.”
Yeah. I’m aware.
Instead of returning my T-shirt and pajama pants, Jan handed me my new uniform. It consisted of a giant T-shirt in bright, inmate orange and a pair of cargo pants. They had zippers at the knees, a pants/shorts two-for-one. I put on the clothes and a pair of stiff hiking boots while Jan fumbled around inside a cabinet.
She returned with a cup wrapped in plastic. “So, what are we gonna find?”
“Huh?”
“What drugs? Easier just to tell me now.” “I’m not on any drugs.”
“Hey, you can lie to yourself all you want. It’s your life to ruin.”
“Why would I lie? You’re literally about to drug-test me.”
“Yeah, well.” She handed me the cup. “Guess we’ll know soon enough.”
I walked into the bathroom. All day, I’d felt like I was sinking. It seemed impossible that I could go any lower.
“Door stays open,” Jan said.
I unwrapped the cup. For the second time that afternoon, I peed while someone waited just a few feet away. Jan took my urine sample with a gloved hand and shoved a backpack in my direction. It was one of those giant hiking rucksacks, stuffed to the gills as though I were about to embark on a carefree summer of bumming around Europe.
The contents of the pack were anything but romantic. They included two plastic tarps, a sleeping bag, Crocs, a roll of toilet paper, some rope, and three pairs of unflattering underwear.
Jan clucked impatiently. “Time to go. Backpack on.”
I hoisted the thing over my shoulders. It weighed almost as much as I did, and I stumbled out the door. An ancient, rusty truck idled by the trailer. The driver was a young guy named Nate, and to my horror, I found him extremely attractive. On any other day I probably would have enjoyed this. But it was this day, the worst day of my life, and I hated Nate just for being part of it.
The engine actually started right up, and Nate took off down the bumpy road. He drove without a map, navigating by memory. It was a blur of right and left turns until, finally, orange dots appeared in the fading light. We pulled up to a makeshift campsite, where a dozen or so teenage girls sat cross-legged in the dirt. They seemed to be eating, though I couldn’t even begin to guess the contents of their bowls.
All I knew was that they looked absolutely miserable, even more miserable than I felt. With their dirty faces and greasy hair, they looked almost feral, transformed by the woods.
Panic set in and I turned my pleading eyes to Nate. “Please don’t leave me here.”
He chuckled, like he’d heard this plea a thousand times. He tossed my backpack from the truck and it nearly knocked me over. He grabbed my arm and marched me across the campsite. Away from the silent girls sitting on the dirt and toward the staff, six women talking in a circle of Crazy Creek chairs.
“Welcome to camp, Thirteen.”
“I’m fifteen,” I said.
“Not your age,” Nate said. “Your number. You’ll catch on.”
The counselors didn’t seem much older than me. They looked like college kids, in charge for the first time and reveling in their power.
“We use numbers a lot here,” one of the women said. “Whenever you’re away from the main camp or in your shelter. So anytime you’re not right in front of us, you’d better be yelling out your number. Or we’ll have to assume you’re up to something. And this is the fourth group of campers out here, so collectively you’re Group Four.”
“I want to call my parents,” I said.
“Oh, there’s no making calls out here.”
Another woman grinned like a Cheshire cat. “In fact, you’re not even supposed to be talking to the other girls. Not while you’re on Earth Phase.”
Earth Phase. What the hell is that?
“Your mentor will explain everything tomorrow. For now, why don’t you go find a spot away from the group and journal about your feelings.”
Journal about my feelings? Are you kidding me?
There were no words for what I was feeling that day, only a mess of scribbled ink. I was experiencing every negative emotion at once: fear, anger, sadness, confusion. At the same time, I was completely numb from the shock of it all. I don’t know how long I sat by myself in the eerie quiet of the woods. It could have been ten minutes or two hours. Eventually, a staffer retrieved me and my still-blank journal.
“It’s time to set up your sleeping bag,” she said. “You’re with us tonight.” She walked me over to the large staff shelter and watched as I pulled out my sleeping bag. She had me roll it out in the tight space between two beds, so close we’d basically be sharing oxygen. I wanted to scream. All day, I’d been forced to give up more and more control. My life didn’t belong to me anymore. I was a toy for these strangers to manipulate and taunt, and everyone’s favorite game seemed to be taking away my shoes.
“Hand ’em over.” The staffer snapped her fingers impatiently.
“Why?”
“Are you kidding? Try running off in Crocs and see how far you get.
Your parents told us about the stunt you pulled on the highway.”
I gave her my boots. My stupid, uncomfortable boots that I didn’t want anyway. As I tried to get even slightly comfortable inside my sleeping bag I heard the other girls moving around outside.
“Group Four,” a staffer yelled. “Time for bed.”
A few minutes later, the footsteps stopped. And the numbers started.
“One.”
“Two.”
“Three.”
Each voice was different. Most of them sounded bored and automatic, they knew the drill and were executing like good soldiers.
Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Then silence. “Well?”
“Huh?”
“You aren’t exempt.” She folded her hands. “Like I said . . . if I don’t hear you, I’ll assume you’re up to something. And then I’ll be mad and you’ll be in trouble.”
“THIRTEEN.” I yelled it at the top of my lungs.
“Atta girl.”
Thirteen. That was my identity. I wasn’t Elizabeth, the soccer player from South Carolina with a soft spot for pancakes and action movies. Because she no longer existed. I was a number, just another girl in an orange T-shirt, that was totally interchangeable. If one of the T-shirts left, I’d become Twelve. Then I’d become Eleven. The role of Thirteen would be played by someone new, the next troubled teen to arrive, pleading, in a rusty pickup truck.
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