"Charlie," she breathed, turning to face him. She let him approach, rather than move to him herself. He was probably livid. Angry and scared, like he'd been when he'd come to her for the truth about her sickness. She wouldn't have blamed him. It was selfish, giving him that letter, letting him bare the burden of her addiction, of her past.

But now he knew more than anyone else at camp did. Not all of it- she couldn't tell him what else Bernard had her sell, how she became a punching bag to protect her siblings- because no one should have to bare that. But he knew enough.

When he got closer, she could tell he was smiling, just a little bit. "Huh. You're... welcome. Thanks for inviting me. I had fun." Good, clean fun. Well, with the sword of Damocles hanging over her head. "You have a good birthday, otherwise?" Tread lightly. Let him be the one to decide when to hit her.