Beyond it, the island sprawled in all its wild, untamed glory. Dense pine forests climbed toward a rocky summit, and the lake glittered like scattered glass under the midday sun. The air smelled of damp earth and pine sap, fresh and sharp after the stale bus ride.

The doors hissed open and one by one, the campers filed out onto the worn path. Baggage clattered, sneakers squelched into mud, and the low hum of nervous chatter rippled through the crowd. Everyone was here. The Killer Bass on one side, the Screaming Gophers on the other, a living, breathing powder keg of teenage ego and ambition.

A figure stood on a makeshift stage at the top of the hill, microphone in hand, wearing a ridiculous amount of sun-bleached hair gel. His grin was too wide, his arms spread like a showman welcoming a circus.