Breaking Point by Suzanne Brockmann

of Type Bs—slouched. Beneath his floppy hat, his graying hair was lank and unwashed. It was hard to tell if that was the result of the long bus ride or merely a poor decision in terms of personal hygiene, brought on by that common Type B malady—severe depression.
    Gina was guessing number two.
    Type Bs usually came to them after enduring some terrible personal tragedy. Like volunteers Type A, C, and D, they were looking to jumpstart their lives, to find meaning, to “make a difference.” But unlike the others, they had never done a day of camping in their entire lives. They meant well, yes, but oh my God, they were ill-equipped and unprepared for this nonluxurious lifestyle.
    They usually asked, within their first week, for the location of the nearest laundromat. Sometimes the nuns—the human nuns—even got a betting pool started. The sister who picked the date closest to when the Type B resigned would win the pot.
    Yeah, this one wasn’t going to be here for very long.
    The good news was that despite the gray in his hair, the dude was still somewhat young. During the two to three weeks he would spend here, he’d actually accomplish something. For example, he could help Father Ben dig that new well.
    But then, as she watched, Leslie Pollard shouldered his duffle bag and picked up a cane that had been lying on the ground, next to it. Great. It was similar to the cane that Max had used while in the physical rehab facility.
    Perfect. A Type B volunteer who not only couldn’t walk without assistance, but would remind her, every time she saw him, of the one man she was trying most to forget.
    Gina forced a smile. “Well, welcome. Will you excuse me for a sec while I go find some water, to, you know, de-puke?”
    He smiled somewhat vaguely, distracted by the camp’s activity. Still, Gina was grateful for small miracles. Type Bs sometimes didn’t come with an ability to access their senses of humor, and a vague smile was way better than nothing.
    “Actually,” he said, “if you’ll just point me to my tent . . . ?”
    “Um, yeah,” Gina said. “About that. See, we’re waiting on a shipment of supplies, and until then, well, I’m afraid you’ll have to share living quarters.”
    He nodded, barely listening as he looked around. “Of course. Believe me, after that bus trip, I can sleep anywhere.”
    Gina would believe it only when she saw it. Still, she managed another smile. “Good. Because I cleared some space for your things in the tent that I share with my friend Molly Anderson—”
    “Excuse me?”
    And just like that, she had Leslie Pollard’s fully focused attention. His gaze was suddenly so sharp, it was a little alarming. She took a step back, for a second wondering if maybe she’d read him completely wrong and that he was a Type A instead of a B.
    But then he blinked rapidly, almost as if he were doing a bad Hugh Grant imitation as he said, “I’m sorry? You cleared a spot in
your
tent? That won’t do. No, I’m afraid that won’t do at all. Doesn’t AAI have rules about that—comingling, cohabitation? Do you open your tent to strangers—strange men—all the time?”
    He was serious. Apparently, Leslie Pollard was even more of a prude than Sister Double-M.
    “If you’d have let me finish,” Gina said, “then you would’ve heard me say that my tentmate and I will be spending most of our time in the hospital for the next few days. Even without the invasion of the puke monsters, we have a few patients—little girls—who need round-the-clock care. You’ll have the tent completely to yourself at night. And if you need to get something from your bag during the day, just make sure you knock before you come in. I cleared out a storage trunk for you—there’s a key in the lock. It’s not very big—but make sure you put anything of value in there and secure it. Sister Leah is a total klepto.”
    Leslie blinked at her.
    “That was a joke,” Gina told him. Apparently she was wrong about