The boardwalk had been condemned since before any of us were born, but the dare never died: six kids, one flashlight, the Hall of Mirrors at the dead end of the pier. Salt wind rattled the boarded ticket booth as we squeezed inside. The air went still and warm, like breath. Then our six reflections stepped in beside us, perfectly in time. "Okay," Maya whispered. "Now what?"

"No way are we splitting up," Maya said. She grabbed my sleeve. "We stay together, we find the door, we leave." We linked arms, all six of us, and shuffled forward as one clumsy chain through the cold glass corridor.

The chain worked until it didn't. The hallway split into three, and our arms got tangled pulling different ways. "This one," Maya insisted, tugging left. The glass on the left showed seven of us walking now, not six. One extra reflection, smiling, keeping pace.