Camp Rewind

Arielle Lin had made many mistakes in her academic life—forgetting her science project, failing her French oral, accidentally calling Mr. Dennison “Dad”—but signing the year-long elective contract without reading it ranked solidly in the top three.

Now, standing in the middle of the Camp Rewind welcome pavilion with twenty-eight other 15-year-olds, a fluorescent clipboard-happy counsellor, and a giant rainbow banner that read “REWIND TO GROW!”, she realized how deeply, irreparably she had messed up.

“You all agreed to the Regression Experience,” chirped the counsellor. Her name tag read Miss Giggles, which Arielle was 90% sure was not legally binding. “This means ten days of digital detox, teamwork activities, and age-adjusted living. Your emotional growth begins here!”

Arielle side-eyed Isabel, her seatmate-turned-partner-in-regret, who was already scanning the orientation packet with military precision. Isabel always read the fine print. She was the kind of person who brought three highlighters to a dentist appointment. Yet somehow, even she looked flustered.

“We’re really doing this,” Isabel muttered. “They’re not joking.”

“Doing what exactly?” Leo called from the back of the group, flipping through the same packet. “What is ‘nighttime protection protocols’ and why do we have a bedtime?”

“Oh no,” groaned Amanda, pale as her marshmallow hoodie. “They’re making us act like toddlers.”

“Correct!” Miss Giggles beamed, somehow unbothered by the rising wave of teenage disbelief. “For the next ten days, you will be treated as what we call ‘advanced littles.’ You will still get to hike, swim, raft, and zip-line—but you will also follow structured emotional development routines.”

Arielle stared at the paper in her hands. It confirmed the horror:

“Campers must wear issued sleepwear and nighttime pull-ups as part of the regression schedule. Any camper found out of compliance will receive a demerit. Three demerits equal counsellor intervention.”

Pull-ups.

Actual, branded, adult-sized pull-ups.

She turned to Isabel. “Tell me this is satire. Like a fake boot camp or some kind of art project.”

Isabel blinked. “I don’t think satire includes sticker charts and communal tooth-brushing.”i