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?"

"We split up," Jay said. "Cover more ground, find the exit faster." Nobody loved it, but he was already walking. We broke into pairs, the flashlight beam slicing between glass walls. Within seconds I couldn't hear the others anymore, just my own footsteps and my reflection matching them.

I decided to just stand still and call out names. "Maya? Jay?" My own voice came back to me from six directions, but slightly delayed, like the mirrors were repeating it on purpose. Then one voice answered that wasn't an echo. It was mine, and it said, "Over here."

I followed the voice that said "over here," stupidly, hopefully. It led me to a dead end of glass where my reflection stood waiting with open arms. "Took you long enough," it said, and stepped out. We swapped places so smoothly I barely felt it. Now I watch the others leave, every time someone takes the dare. I wave. They never wave back.