What a snot. I guess there are some things a good night’s sleep will never remedy.

“But …” I stand there, trying to think of something to say about the two of them running off together on a rainy day to see the sunrise that won’t make me look like a jealous girlfriend, but everything seems wrong. Really, I’m not worried. It isn’t possible for him to do anything underhanded. Even thinking about it would give him hives. And Angela—not only is she my cousin, she’s like Mother Teresa. They’re so … alike.

Hugo picks up his camera and grins. “I got some good pictures. You know you were drooling?”

My mouth drops open, and all of a sudden I can feel a spot of drool hanging over my bottom lip. I swipe at it. “If I find out you took pictures of me while I was sleeping, that thing is going to be in the river faster than you can—”

“Hey, hey, hey. Chill,” he says, as if he wasn’t the one who started it. “I only photograph subjects that interest me.”

I glare at him. That’s it. Angela is no longer my cousin. It’s bad enough I have to deal with his attitude every day after school in the yearbook office, but this is torture. There are still a few weeks left before yearbooks get printed. I’ve been toying with the idea all year long since I was appointed editor of the seniors section, but now I’ve pretty much decided that the entry under his graduation picture is going to have an unfortunate typo: “Huge A. Holbrook.” A smile comes to my lips as I imagine it. “When do we have to leave?”

“Right about now,” Justin’s voice echoes somewhere in the woods. A second later, he’s climbing down the rocky slope toward us, wearing a yellow hooded rain jacket, hiking boots, and shorts despite the frigid weather.

Angela follows behind him, hands in her pockets. “Well, that was a big bust.” She sighs, annoyed. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“Come on. We’ve got to be there by eight.” Justin starts stuffing his backpack with supplies. Suddenly he looks at me and leans forward, kissing my forehead. “Morning. Sleep well?”

“Yep. Great,” I say.

“You ready to do some rafting?” I’m about to nod and say “Ready as I’ll ever be” when he narrows his eyes at me. “Going for the tribal warrior look?”

“Why?” I begin, and then I realize he’s staring at my cheeks. Out of the corner of my vision, I can see something black on my nose. Dirt. I start to swipe at it with my hand and Justin takes his sleeve and wipes it, too. Feeling stupid, I ask, “Better?”

He nods. “I kind of liked it the other way, though. Made you look tough.”

He would. That’s Justin for you. He’d much rather a girl sport war paint than lip gloss.

Northeast Outfitters is right across Route 201, so once we pack up all our stuff, we head across the road and into a log cabin. There are already groups of people hanging around outside on the deck, wearing wet suits and slurping down coffees in Styrofoam cups. Most of them are older people, in their thirties and forties, maybe. They look really adventurous. Well, more adventurous than I do, I’m sure. Hell, I’m nervous about how stupid I’m going to look in my rented wet suit.

Here we’re close enough to the river that I can look across to the other bank. Scattered among the black pines are bits of gray stone and concrete, what looks like the broken remains of some old building. For a moment I think I see someone moving there, but when I focus I realize it must only be the pine trees sweeping back and forth in the wind. At least, I hope.

When we go inside, Justin saunters up to the desk, self-assured. “Hey, Spiffy!” he calls, and I know he’s talking to Pat Skiffington, one of the guys who work here and one of Justin’s oldest friends. Justin’s family has been coming to the Outfitters for so long that the two families exchange Christmas cards—the last one I saw from the Skiffingtons had Frosty careening down a river in a yellow raft. Even when planning for this trip was in the earliest stages, it was always “Spiffy will hook us up” and “Spiffy knows this river better than anyone.” I peer around the shoulders of the other people in the room to see a guy with the most shocking red hair and freckles clap Justin on the back and say, “Yo, man!” He’s wearing a Red Sox cap turned backward and a rumpled T-shirt, and he looks about as unspiffy as a person can get.

I hang back with Angela, who is trying to find one of her booties in her bag. She and Justin brought their own wet suits, since they’re up here all the time, and Hugo borrowed his brother’s. But for me, it’s rental city. Ugh. I don’t really like the idea of a suit that hugged someone else’s most private body parts hugging mine, but I’m determined not to complain. I’m determined to be okay with roughing it, which was why I pretended it was just fine that we didn’t brush our teeth, despite the thick film on mine that I keep trying to wipe away with my tongue. I bite my lip and focus on the pictures in a glass case along with a huge map of the state. Photographs of dozens of smiling people in ballpark-mustard-color rafts, surrounded by white water. They all look so happy. I don’t know if it’s possible for me to smile like that. Well, not surrounded by a raging river, at least.

Then I turn to another picture that looks out of place among all the color photos. It’s faded and yellowing, part of an old newspaper article, and the frame itself is cracked and covered with what looks like years of dust. The headline on it says: RIDE THE DEAD RIVER WITH THE SKIFFINGTON BROTHERS. There are two men, one clean-shaven in a suit and tie, and the other in a beard and a flannel shirt, standing under a GRAND OPENING sign on the porch of what must be the same cabin I’m standing in. The date on it is July 18, 1992.

“Got it!” Angela says, triumphant, hopping around to squeeze the bootie onto her foot. She’s already wearing her wet suit. It’s cute, mostly black with a little pink stitching. She looks even better in the wet suit than she does in regular clothes: strong, statuesque, and athletic. I think I will probably look like a full garbage bag in mine: lumpy, shapeless, and sadly waiting to go to where its life will end.

Justin motions to us. I move through the crowd and lean against the desk as he hands me a pen. “You guys just need to sign this release,” he says.

I read it as both Hugo and Angela hurriedly scribble their names on the line. I have to focus on my breathing when I go down the list of possible risks: “disease, strains, fractures, partial and/or total paralysis, death, or other ailments that cause serious disability.”

I repeat Angela’s words to calm myself. Smooth sailing.

Then I stop when I see: “Signature of parent or guardian if under 18.” I look at Justin. He mouths, It’s okay. Just do it.

I hesitate for only a second. This is Justin. Justin, who always checks my seat belt to make sure it’s fastened before he takes Monster out. Justin, who religiously stays to my left when we’re walking down the sidewalk, to protect me from whatever peril might lie in the street. He wouldn’t have me sign anything unless there really was no danger involved. It’ll just be a leisurely jaunt down the river. Smooth sailing. I grab the pen and sign Kiandra Levesque.

“Let’s get you a suit. It’s twenty to rent,” Spiffy says, inspecting me as I fork over the crumpled bill that’s been glued with sweat to my palm. I think he’s probably just trying to figure out what size I am, but when he turns around and walks into the back of the office, Justin winks at me.

“He does not want me,” I mutter.

“Totally does.”

“You’re crazy.”

“I’m right.”

I stick my tongue out at him just as Spiffy appears in the doorway with an amorphous gray thing with pee-yellow arms that looks like it has seen better days. “You can try it on here,” he tells me, motioning to the back. “Want some help?”