“We can’t stay here.” His chapped lips form words it takes my sluggish brain far too long to piece together into thoughts. “We have to get out of the sun. Find somewater.”
“Ian… We can’t just leave himhere…”
“He’s covered by the canopy. And we can’t help him if we’redead.”
He has apoint.
His hand stretches toward me, each finger creating a divot in the sand. I watch with detached fascination as it comes to a stop beside mine. My eyes lift to his, wide withwonder.
“Let’s go.” His jaw locks. “Time to getup.”
My dry tongue attempts a rebuttal, but before I can say a word he closes that last shred of distance and laces our hands together. They fit like two perfect puzzle pieces. I suck in a sharp gasp of air as the sensation of his callused palm slides against mine, sandy and strong. I feel the tendons flexing in his fingers as they envelop mine, and nearly cry as I realize how much I have needed to feel human touch. How, more than water or shelter or rescue, I have longed for someone to take me into their arms and tell me it will all be okay. That I’m not alone in thisnightmare.
“Together,” he whispers, hand squeezing minetight.
“Together,” Iecho.
He pulls me to my feet and supports me when I nearly stumble off balance into the sand. I stare up at his face, haloed by the sun like some angel sent down to save me, and cannot think of a single thing to say to him. I know I should drop my hand from his, should pull out of this half-embrace that’s brought inconsequential parts of our bodies into contact, but I cannot make myself do thateither.
Instead, inexplicably, I find my hand squeezing ever tighter as he leads me toward the tree line. One careful step at a time. Connected in a way I haven’t even begun tounderstand.
Not quiteenemies.
Not yetfriends.
Something…indefinable.
* * *
The graceful palmsthat bow like swan necks at the edge of the beach soon yield to a dense canopy of forest. The temperature drops about ten degrees as soon as we step into the shade. I’m glad to give my bare feet a break from the burning sand and my eyes a rest from the glaring sunbeams as we venture a few yards inland. The wild jungle looks untouched by time. It calls to mind images of the Jurassic Period in my old science textbooks — massive ferns, creeping mosses, hanging vines thick as my fist. Every verdant inch teems with life, utterly unmolested by human influence. Devoid of any traces ofdevelopment.
My heartclenches.
In the most desperate corners of my mind, I was holding out hope that perhaps we’d fortuitously washed ashore just around the bend from a five-star resort, where we’d be welcomed with open arms and free buffet access. In actuality, I suspected otherwise the moment the island came intoview.
This place isdeserted.
Uncharted.
One square mile at most and, from the looks of it, entirely uninhabited. Just one of a million small atolls that span Polynesia, Micronesia, and Melanesia. Too small for major foreign enterprises, too isolated to lure in local residents. To be sure, there’s a certain dark twist in the knowledge that, had the Flint Group stumbled across it under different circumstances, we might’ve ended up here at some point anyway — Beck taking photographs of potential building sites for Seth’s luxury property, me making sandcastles and exploring tidal pools withSophie.
Funny, the games fate likes to play withus.
The air here is heavy with moisture. It sings with the persistent buzz of insects, punctuated by the occasional chirp of a songbird in the branches overhead. Thick foliage grows in a riot across the ground. Lizards rustle through the underbrush as we pick a path along; I watch them scurry away on tiny legs, their tails flickingmadly.
I bet we’re the first humans they’ve everseen.
With no path to follow, our pace is glacial. We pick our way through the dense forest, hands still entwined. I keep my eyes on the ground — sharp-edged palm fronds and rough coral rocks are abundant; one misstep could easily puncture the thin skin of my bare feet. I glance at Beck’s boots with a fair amount of envy. He doesn’t notice my discomfort as he tugs me along, focused on forging a way through thethicket.
The farther we venture, the more humid the atmosphere becomes. Each breath feels too-thick inside my lungs. It’s a far cry from the crisp New England air to which I’m accustomed. When we step into a sun-filtered glade of massive elephant ear plants and I spot the beads of condensation collected like glittering diamonds in their leafy boughs, I drop Beck’s hand and rush forward, uncaring whether I tear my feet to shreds in my haste. I’m too desperate to sate my thirst to think about anythingelse.
Falling to my knees, I fold a leaf larger than my torso into a crude funnel and pour the droplets onto my arid tongue. It’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted. I grab another and slurp it dry, then another and another, until I’ve lost count. I’m sure I’ve drunk from every leaf in the glade when I finally cease feeling like a dried out sponge left too long in thesun.
My senses return one by one as I push to my feet. The unique, earthy smell of the rainforest — dirt and decay, greenery and growth. The gorgeous sight of dappled sunbeams all around me, filtering through the thick canopy above my head. The soothing soundof…
Hacking?
My gaze follows the incongruous noise to Beck. He’s a few dozen feet away, biceps straining as he slices his way through a thick hanging vine with a tiny utility tool blade. I think he’s going to pull a Tarzan and start swinging but when the ropey end falls free, he catches it in one hand and inserts it into the wide mouth of his water bottle, filling it drip by drip. A naturalhose.