The Mystery of Barbara B.

I met Barbara B. when we were twelve years old and both attended the same church camp. You know the kind. Set out in the middle of the woods. Unpainted plank cabins with row upon row of cots separated by tiny end tables stretch from screened walls of windows to screened walls of windows. These were the camps run by adults we never saw and overseen by young adults only slightly older than the campers. Boys slept on one side of the camp, girls on the other. We began our mornings raising the flag and pledging allegiance to all it represented. We had prayers and sang songs. Between meals we participated in crafts and other activities—swimming and boating and archery to name a few. At night we bu

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