The morning broke over Camp Wawanakwa with a gentleness that felt almost mocking. After weeks of screaming, explosions, electric shocks, and the constant reek of Chef's cooking experiments, the island seemed to hold its breath. The water lapped quietly against the ruined dock. The wind carried only the faintest scent of pine and seaweed instead of hot sauce and desperation. Even the gulls sounded subdued, as though they knew something final was about to happen.
Two enormous sets of bleachers had been erected overnight on the widest stretch of beach. They faced each other like rival armies across a narrow battlefield of red carpet that ran from the base of the thousand-foot cliff all the way to a small wooden platform where Chris McLean already stood, silver briefcase handcuffed to his wrist. The briefcase looked comically oversized, like it had been designed more for dramatic effect than practicality. Behind Chris, a digital timer ticked down from 60:00 in glowing red numbers. Below it, in smaller print: *One Million Dollars – Winner Takes All*.
The bleachers were already filling. Every eliminated contestant had been ferried back from Playa Des Losers for the finale, and none of them had come quietly.
On the left side—the Ezekiel Squad, as Izzy had immediately dubbed it—the energy was chaotic and farm-adjacent.
Noah occupied the very front row, legs crossed, holding a hand-painted sign that read: *I'm only here so I don't get fined.* He looked bored, but the corner of his mouth twitched every time someone chanted Zeke's name. Beside him, Justin was using the polished surface of Ezekiel's old cowbell (which someone had inexplicably brought as a good-luck charm) as a mirror, adjusting his hair with surgical precision. "If he wins," Justin muttered, "I'm claiming at least ten percent for emotional support."
Izzy dangled upside-down from the top row, knees hooked over the railing, Mr. Coconut clutched in both hands. The coconut now wore a tiny hand-sewn tuxedo made from an old bandana and what appeared to be dental floss stitching. Izzy was narrating loudly to no one in particular: "And in this corner, weighing approximately zero pounds and fueled entirely by maple syrup and repressed teenage angst… Ezekiel the Farm Avenger!"
Eva stood directly behind the front row like a sentinel, arms folded so tightly her biceps looked ready to pop stitches. Every time someone from the other bleachers yelled Gwen's name too loudly, Eva's glare snapped toward them like a whip. DJ, Bridgette, Tyler, Lindsay, Katie, and Sadie had formed a loose semicircle around the middle rows. They all wore matching flannel-patterned armbands that Lindsay had apparently tie-dyed herself at three in the morning. Their chant—"Zeke! Zeke! Zeke-eh!"—had the unmistakable cadence of a cattle call, which made Noah roll his eyes so hard it was audible.
Across the carpet, Gwen's side was no less intense, just… differently intense.
Leshawna ruled the front like a general surveying her troops. Harold sat beside her, clutching a banner he'd spent all night decorating with gothic lettering and tiny painted ravens: *Gwen – Darkness Has Never Looked So Bright*. Every time Harold executed a particularly impressive banner-wave or air-guitar solo of support, Leshawna rewarded him with a loud, theatrical kiss that left lipstick marks on both cheeks and made Harold's glasses fog up. He looked simultaneously ecstatic and medically concerned.
Trent and Cody sat shoulder-to-shoulder a row back, offering the kind of quiet, steady support that didn't require screaming. Trent strummed absent patterns on his knee. Cody kept adjusting his glasses and whispering pep-talks to himself as though he were the one running the relay.
Owen occupied dead center of the bleacher, wearing the most tragic garment anyone had ever seen: a tie-dye shirt that was half black-and-purple goth swirls and half red-and-black plaid flannel. He had clearly tried to compromise and ended up looking like a walking identity crisis. Sweat poured down his face. Every few minutes he would glance left, then right, then bury his face in his hands and wail softly, "I LOVE THEM BOTH!"
Courtney sat ramrod straight, clipboard in lap, taking furious notes. Geoff lounged beside her with a party hat already on, sipping from a suspiciously large slushie. Duncan leaned against the railing behind them, smirking like he knew something no one else did. Beth kept nervously offering everyone granola bars. And then—somehow, impossibly—Heather.
Heather sat on the very edge of Gwen's bleachers, legs crossed, manicured nails tapping impatiently against her knee. She wore oversized sunglasses and looked like she'd rather be waterboarded than admit she was here for moral support. Yet here she was. Firmly planted. On Gwen's side.
When Leshawna had raised an eyebrow at her earlier, Heather had snapped, "Don't get any ideas. I just want to see farm boy cry when he loses. That's all."
Leshawna had grinned so wide her earrings swung. "Uh-huh. Sure, girl. Keep telling yourself that."
Chris clapped his hands once, sharp enough to silence both bleachers.
"Finalists! Spectators! People watching at home who still haven't figured out how to change the channel! Welcome… to the end!"
He gestured grandly at Gwen and Ezekiel, who stood side by side on the starting line. Neither looked at the crowd. They looked only at each other.
"Today we crown our million-dollar champion in the Rejected Olympic Relay! Three brutal stages. No eliminations. No second chances. One winner. One very large cheque. And possibly one very awkward slow-motion montage."
He paused for dramatic effect.
"Stage One: Greased Flagpole Ascent. Stage Two: Shark-Infested Gorge Tightrope. Stage Three: Sprint of Destiny. First one across the finish line claims the million. Second place gets a very respectable… one hundred thousand dollars and a participation trophy made of recycled challenge props."
Gwen glanced sideways at Ezekiel. Her pulse hammered against her ribs so hard she was sure he could hear it.
"Good luck, farm boy," she whispered.
Ezekiel's mouth curved—just a fraction. "You too, eh."
He didn't mention the futures he'd seen. He didn't mention the dozens of timelines where one of them fell, or the rope snapped early, or the sharks got lucky. He simply looked at her with those steady hazel eyes that said, more clearly than words ever could: *I'm glad it's you standing here with me.*
Chris raised a starter pistol that looked suspiciously like it had been borrowed from a cartoon.
"On your marks… get set… GO!"
The pistol cracked.
**Stage 1 – The Greased Flagpole**
Two thirty-foot poles stood twenty meters apart, each coated in a thick, viscous layer of black axle grease that glistened evilly in the sunlight. At the top of each pole fluttered a small flag—one black with a silver skull, the other red-and-black plaid.
Gwen and Ezekiel sprinted in perfect synchronicity, boots kicking up sand. Gwen reached her pole first. She jumped, wrapped her arms and legs around it, and immediately felt the grease betray her. Her hands slid. She cursed under her breath, dug the toes of her combat boots in harder, and began to inch upward using raw friction and spite.
Ezekiel attacked his pole like he was climbing the silo back home after a storm had knocked the weathervane loose. His callused palms found grip where none should exist. He moved with the economical grace of someone who had spent years hauling hay bales and wrestling calves.
Halfway up Gwen's pole, her left hand hit a particularly slick patch. Her grip failed. She slipped six inches before catching herself with a desperate thigh-lock that made every muscle in her legs scream.
Ezekiel—already three-quarters of the way up—glanced over.
"Watch the left side, Gwen!" he shouted. "There's a knot about eight inches higher—grab it!"
"Stop helping her, you maple-syrup moron!" Noah yelled from the bleachers. "I have fifty bucks riding on you!"
"Mind your business, bookworm!" Heather snapped back. "Go, Gwen! Use that anger! Climb like you hate everyone here—which you basically do!"
Gwen gritted her teeth, reached, found the knot, and pulled herself higher. Ezekiel snagged his flag a heartbeat later and began sliding down in a controlled skid, grease coating his arms to the elbows.
They hit the sand at almost the same instant—two heavy thuds, two flags clutched in sweaty fists.
Chris checked the replay. "Simultaneous touch! We're tied after Stage One!"
The bleachers erupted. Owen sobbed openly.
**Stage 2 – The Gorge of Sharks**
They sprinted along a narrow path to the cliff's edge. A single frayed tightrope—barely two inches wide—stretched across a sixty-foot gorge. Below, in the churning water, twelve sharks circled. Each had a bright red laser pointer duct-taped to its dorsal fin so the cameras could capture dramatic red dots dancing across the rocks.
Gwen stepped onto the rope without hesitation. Her balance was excellent—years of sneaking across rooftops and balancing on fence rails in abandoned lots had prepared her better than most. She moved with careful, deliberate steps, arms out, eyes locked on the far ledge.
Ezekiel followed two paces behind. He could feel the rope vibrating under his weight. Worse—he could feel the moment it would give. No vision this time. Just instinct. The fibers were old. Salt-weakened. One more step in the wrong rhythm and—
Halfway across, the rope gave its first audible groan.
Ezekiel's stomach dropped.
"Gwen," he said—quiet, urgent. "Leap. Now."
She didn't question him. She didn't look back. She bent her knees and launched herself forward just as the rope snapped with a sound like a gunshot.
The world slowed.
Gwen sailed through the air, arms windmilling. Ezekiel pushed off the remains of the rope with everything he had. He twisted mid-air, stretched out one arm—
—and caught her wrist.
His other hand slammed into the rocky ledge. Pain exploded up his arm as jagged stone tore skin. He gritted his teeth, muscles burning, and hauled her up inch by brutal inch until she could grab the edge herself.
They collapsed together on solid ground, panting, faces inches apart.
Gwen's eyes were wide. "Thanks."
Ezekiel managed a shaky smile, blood trickling from a cut on his palm. "Just… keeping things fair, eh."
From the bleachers came a roar so loud it rattled the gorge walls.
Leshawna was standing on her seat screaming, "THAT'S MY GIRL AND THAT'S MY FARM BOY!"
Heather—despite herself—had both hands over her mouth.
**Stage 3 – The Sprint of Destiny**
The final stretch was brutally simple: four hundred meters of red carpet laid straight across the beach to the finish line. No obstacles. No tricks.
Just running.
They exploded off the ledge together. Sand flew. Muscles burned. The crowd noise became white static.
Twenty meters from the finish, something absurd happened.
Mr. Coconut sat in the exact center of the carpet.
Not just placed—enthroned. A tiny hand-carved wooden throne (clearly Izzy's work) had been set in the middle of the path, and Mr. Coconut sat upon it wearing his tuxedo and a minuscule paper crown.
Gwen and Ezekiel didn't even break stride.
They leaped at the exact same moment—perfectly synchronized. Their hands brushed in mid-air, fingers hooking for the briefest second like a promise.
They crashed through the finish tape together in a blur of black hair, flannel, sand, and sweat.
Chris stared at the photo-finish monitor. The entire beach went deathly quiet.
He swallowed.
"The winner… by the width of a single thread…"
He looked up, eyes gleaming with pure television glee.
"…and your new millionaire is… EZEKIEL!"
The Ezekiel Squad detonated.
Tyler and DJ tried to hoist him onto their shoulders. Izzy swung down from the bleachers like a monkey, Mr. Coconut still in hand. Noah sighed dramatically but clapped anyway.
Ezekiel didn't look at the briefcase. He didn't look at Chris. He didn't look at the screaming crowd.
He pushed through the chaos in a straight line until he reached Gwen.
She stood bent over, hands on her knees, catching her breath. When she straightened, her eyes were bright with sweat and something softer.
"A million dollars, farm boy," she said, voice rough. "Not bad for a guy who started the season in a toque and bad hockey jokes."
Ezekiel stepped closer. His voice dropped so low only she could hear it.
"The money's just paper, eh."
He reached out slowly—hesitant, like he still couldn't quite believe this timeline was real—and brushed a strand of black hair off her forehead.
"I didn't need any visions to know this was where I wanted to end up."
Gwen stared at him for a long heartbeat.
Then—before he could second-guess himself, before the cameras could zoom in properly—she grabbed the front of his torn flannel shirt with both hands and yanked him down.
Ezekiel's eyes widened in genuine shock.
Inside his head, a thousand little Ezekiels threw their straw hats in the air and whooped.
She kissed him.
Not a tentative brush. Not a quick peck for the ratings.
A real, deep, world-stopping kiss that tasted like salt and adrenaline and the faint ghost of ghost-pepper sauce from yesterday's challenge.
Ezekiel froze for half a second—stunned—then his arms came around her waist like they belonged there. He kissed her back with the same steady certainty he brought to everything else.
The beach went silent for one perfect breath.
Then it exploded.
"GET IT, GIRL!" Leshawna roared, lifting Harold clean off his feet and spinning him in a circle.
"FINALLY!" Heather shouted, throwing both hands in the air before remembering herself and crossing her arms again with a muttered, "About time."
Noah sighed theatrically. "There goes the mysterious-loner brand. But at least I won my bet."
Owen burst into tears so violent that Geoff had to pat him on the back while simultaneously filming with his phone.
Chris sprinted toward the camera crew, waving his arms.
"WAIT! What?! Since when?! Why didn't the spy-cams catch the build-up?! This is a ratings DISASTER—no—wait—it's ROMANCE! It's a ROMANTIC REVELATION! CHET! CLOSE-UP! NOW!"
Gwen finally pulled back—just far enough to breathe—her forehead resting against Ezekiel's. Her cheeks were flushed, lips swollen, eyes glittering.
"No one suspects a thing about your… intuition," she whispered.
Ezekiel's grin was slow and blinding. "Always was our secret, eh."
He kissed her again—slower this time. Softer. Like he was memorizing every second.
The cameras zoomed in.
The crowd screamed.
And somewhere in the chaos, Chris McLean was already mentally rewriting the reunion special.
Because the million dollars had been won.
But the real prize?
That had just been claimed in front of everyone.
The sun had barely dipped below the horizon when the first bonfire roared to life on the main beach. Chris—still high on the unexpected romantic jackpot he'd just filmed—had declared the rest of the night "officially off the books." No more challenges. No more confessionals. No more Chef screaming about portion control. Just one massive, lawless, end-of-the-world-style celebration funded by the production budget that was already hemorrhaging money from all the overtime pay the camera crew was racking up.
The entire cast—winners, losers, quitters, and people who'd been medically evacuated—was back on the island. Playa Des Losers had been abandoned; the luxury resort staff had been given the night off with a very generous "please don't sue us" bonus. Speedboats had ferried everyone over in waves, and now the beach looked like the world's most chaotic high-school reunion crossed with a music festival that had lost its permit three days ago.
Tables (borrowed from the mess hall, still stained with mystery-meat residue) groaned under piles of actual edible food for once: pizza boxes stacked five feet high, trays of wings, nachos drowning in cheese, buckets of ice cream that were already melting into technicolor puddles, and—miraculously—an entire roasted pig that Chef had apparently been saving for his own victory party that never came. Someone (probably Geoff) had also smuggled in several cases of beer, coolers of suspiciously neon-colored cocktails, and a suspicious number of glow sticks.
Music blasted from four different Bluetooth speakers that had been duct-taped to palm trees. The playlists were fighting each other: Trent's chill indie acoustic set battled Duncan's aggressive punk, while Izzy had somehow hijacked one speaker entirely for sea-shanty remixes featuring dolphin sounds. No one bothered to fix it. Chaos was the vibe now.
Ezekiel and Gwen stood near the biggest bonfire, still wearing the same sand-crusted, grease-smeared clothes from the relay. Neither had changed. Neither seemed to care. They were holding hands—openly, shamelessly, like they'd forgotten the cameras even existed.
Leshawna spotted them first and let out a war cry that could have summoned whales.
"LOOK AT THESE TWO LOVE BIRDS OVER HERE!" She charged across the sand, Harold jogging behind her trying to keep up with a tray of cupcakes balanced in one hand and a glow-in-the-dark lei in the other. "Y'all finally stopped dancing around each other like awkward middle-schoolers at a sock hop!"
Gwen laughed—actually laughed, loud and free—and ducked her head against Ezekiel's shoulder for a second. "We had an audience for like… three seasons. Cut us some slack."
"Slack?" Leshawna snorted. "Baby, after that kiss? You owe us details. Spicy ones."
Ezekiel turned approximately the color of a ripe tomato. "Uh… eh…"
Harold—blessedly—chose that moment to shove a cupcake into Ezekiel's mouth. "Here. Sugar helps with blushing. Scientifically proven. I read it in a manga once."
Across the fire, Heather sat on an overturned canoe with a very large margarita in her hand. She watched the scene with narrowed eyes, but the usual venom was missing. When Gwen caught her staring, Heather raised her glass in a small, almost grudging toast.
Gwen tilted her head. "You coming over here or what?"
Heather sighed dramatically, stood, brushed sand off her ruined designer shorts, and sauntered over. She stopped a foot away, looked Ezekiel up and down like he was a questionable used car, then turned to Gwen.
"You could've done worse," she said finally. "A lot worse."
Gwen smirked. "High praise."
Heather rolled her eyes, but she didn't walk away. Instead she leaned against the canoe and muttered, "If he hurts you, I'll bury him where even the crabs won't find him."
Ezekiel blinked. "Appreciate the concern, eh."
"Don't get cocky, farm boy."
But there was a tiny, real smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
The night spiraled from there.
Izzy had commandeered the jet-ski and was now doing donuts in the shallows while wearing a life jacket made entirely of glow sticks. Mr. Coconut rode on the handlebars, duct-taped in place, tiny tuxedo flapping wildly. Every time she hit a wave, the entire beach screamed in unison.
DJ and Bridgette had started an impromptu limbo contest using a fishing pole and a string of Christmas lights. Tyler kept insisting he could go lower if he just "believed in himself hard enough," then promptly face-planted into the sand. Lindsay clapped anyway and called him "super brave."
Owen had discovered the roasted pig and declared it his soulmate. He was currently slow-dancing with a hunk of pork on a plate while singing an off-key rendition of "Can't Help Falling in Love." Geoff filmed the whole thing, narrating like a nature documentary: "And here we observe the wild Owen in his natural habitat… consuming his feelings."
Courtney tried—really tried—to organize a game of beach volleyball with actual rules. No one listened. Duncan spiked the ball so hard it hit Chris in the back of the head while he was trying to get a nighttime confessional shot. Chris yelped, dropped his coffee, and—for once—didn't threaten to sue anyone. He just rubbed his head and muttered, "Ratings gold. Pure gold."
Trent found an acoustic guitar (no one knew where it came from) and started playing something soft and wistful. Cody sat beside him, quietly harmonizing. For a few minutes the noise of the party dimmed and people actually listened. Even Duncan stopped heckling long enough to lean against a palm tree and close his eyes.
Gwen tugged Ezekiel away from the main crowd, toward the quieter stretch of beach near the old dock ruins. The music still thumped in the distance, but here it was just waves and crackling firelight reflected on water.
They sat on a piece of driftwood, shoulders touching.
"You okay?" she asked quietly.
He nodded. "Yeah. Just… still processing, eh. Winning. Kissing you in front of everyone. The million bucks sitting in Chris's stupid silver briefcase like it's no big deal."
Gwen leaned her head on his shoulder. "You're allowed to freak out a little. I'm freaking out a little."
He turned to look at her. "About what?"
"About the fact that tomorrow we leave this insane bubble and go back to real life. And I don't know what that looks like for us yet."
Ezekiel was quiet for a long moment. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, slightly bent piece of paper. He unfolded it carefully.
It was a ticket stub—from the county fair back home, three summers ago. The one where his little sister had dragged him on the Ferris wheel and he'd spent the whole ride pretending he wasn't terrified of heights.
"I kept this," he said softly. "Because that night was the last time everything felt… simple. Before the show. Before everything got loud and complicated."
He handed it to her.
"I figure… maybe we start there. Simple. Just you and me. No cameras. No million-dollar target on our backs. Just… us. Going to fairs. Eating terrible cotton candy. Holding hands where nobody's filming it."
Gwen stared at the faded ticket. Her throat felt tight.
"You're such a sap, farm boy."
"Guilty."
She folded the ticket carefully and tucked it into her own pocket. Then she turned, grabbed his face with both hands, and kissed him again—slow this time, deliberate, like she was sealing something.
When they pulled apart, she whispered against his lips, "Deal. But I get to pick the first terrible fair ride."
"Deal."
They sat like that for a while—quiet, tangled together, listening to the distant chaos of their friends being gloriously, stupidly alive.
Eventually the party found them again.
Izzy rode up on the jet-ski, soaked and grinning maniacally. "C'MON LOVE BIRDS! We're doing fireworks! Duncan stole them from Chris's emergency stash!"
Behind her, Duncan was indeed sprinting across the beach holding a cardboard box labeled *EMERGENCY FLARES – DO NOT TOUCH – CHRIS*. Chris was sprinting after him, screaming something about liability.
Gwen laughed so hard she nearly fell off the driftwood.
Ezekiel stood, pulled her up with him.
"Ready to go cause some more trouble, eh?"
She grinned—wide, wicked, and completely unafraid.
"Always."
They ran back toward the bonfire hand-in-hand.
The night stretched on—loud, messy, ridiculous, perfect.
Somewhere around 3 a.m., as the last firework painted the sky electric green and gold, Owen started a group hug that somehow included everyone on the beach. Even Heather. Even Chris (who pretended to hate it but didn't pull away).
And in the middle of it all, Ezekiel and Gwen stood wrapped around each other, watching sparks rain down like falling stars.
The island had tried to break them for months.
Instead, it had given them this:
A million dollars.
A secret finally out in the open.
And forty-odd extremely loud, extremely weird people who—against all odds—had become something like family.
The party didn't end at dawn.
It just kept going.
Because some nights, you don't say goodbye to the madness.
You just turn the music up louder.
THE END... OF THE BEGINNING.