Archive of Our Own

Your name is Javier Cody Martinez.

Everyone calls you Javi, though. Javito if you’re Mom—or if you’re Travis trying to get a rise out of you. You turn thirteen in June, which is only a month away. Seventh grade is almost over, meaning the end of that chapter in your life.

It already feels like summer break, just with school days in between. You wake up in the morning and take a cold shower to wash off the sticky sweat from your sleep. Your skin is still damp; water clings to your eyelashes and hairline. Everything finally slows down. That’s why you like summer the most. You get to let out the breath you were holding in—to ride a bike or read a book or take a nap when you normally would be in a classroom.

You’re walking out of the back doors near the Science Wing of your school, telling Owen about how you get to miss a week of classes because you’re going with your dad to Seattle. Owen is your best friend, if you want to call it that. He’s the kind of person who sticks around like hardened hot glue; you’ve known him since you moved here two years ago and he’s sort of your only option.

This is sort of how it happened: on your first day of fifth grade, fresh meat of Wiskayok, Owen plopped down on the seat nearest to your window seat and asked what you were drawing without an ounce of humility. (“Dude, that eye looks kind of wonky. No offense,” was the second thing he ever said to you. The rest is history.)

So if you’re being honest—and this may sound a bit lame—Owen isn’t really your best friend. Travis is, even if you’re not his. But Owen will have to do.

“Javi, dude, you’re so lucky,” he whines. “You’re basically starting summer break early.”

You just nod and say, “Yeah,” for good measure. Something you learned a long time ago is that people hate it when you don’t give them a verbal answer, even if there’s no reason to speak at all.

Owen kicks a rock down the gravel pathway. He’s talking animatedly about the new Dragon Ball episode, but you can only focus on how the spring day smudges into summer like oil pastels. You skip ponds and drag your fingers along the rusty wires of the fence ‘round the back of the schoolyard. The afternoon sky is a royal blue. Cicadas have that strange cult hum that indicates the beginning of the season.

It’s weird how you forget what winter is like when summer rolls around. And when winter freezes over, summer dissolves in your mouth and you can’t remember what it tastes like. Sometimes you wish summer would last forever. That’s probably how it’ll feel when you’re an adult. Summer that lasts a lifetime.

You don’t really catch what Owen says while you’re zoned out, but he looks at you with eager eyes and asks if he can come over to your house. He just wants to come over so he can talk to your mom. He’s got, like, an embarrassing crush on her, and his transparency about it is starting to piss you off. It’d still be fun to play video games with Owen, you think, but you’re caught on a trapeze here.

Your dad’s probably waiting in the parking lot to pick you up. You tell Owen that. You say you have soccer practice, which is a half-truth. It’s your dad’s team’s soccer practice—one you have to sit through for two hours on the bleachers because he picks you up from school and drives straight there. You’re glad that you’ve got the Yellowjackets’ schedule memorized like the back of your hand, so you know which days to check out books from the library.

Giving Owen a half-hearted wave, you take a left to the parking lot and spot your dad’s 1992 Ford Escort in the distance. You know the name of the model because there aren’t any Hot Wheels made after it. Also, Travis is really into cars.

Your dad doesn’t ask you how your day was. He hasn’t asked since you were in the first grade. His fingers find the dashboard and he turns the music a bit louder as you get into the back seat. You can’t help but notice that the passenger seat is empty.

“Where’s Travis?” you ask.

“Hm?”

“Nevermind.”

Dad looks at you through the rearview mirror. “Travis is back home. Caught a ride with some kid… can’t remember his name. Kyle? Whatever, the one that dresses like a sissy.”

Kevyn. He’s talking about Kevyn. The only people in Dad’s circle are his family, his coworkers, and his star soccer players. You’ve brought Owen over a hundred times and he still acts like it’s his first time meeting him.

Travis is lucky to have friends who can drive him places. He technically has his permit, but he doesn’t have his own car, and Dad would let Travis use this car over his cold, dead body. Says that he’s stupid to understand how a stick shift works.

You push your luck and change the subject. “D’you think you could just drop me off at home this time?”

Dad grumbles in perfect harmony with the car’s ignition. “I’m already gonna be late since you took your sweet-ass time getting here, so no. You need to be watching these girls anyway, so you’ll be ahead of everyone else when you’re playing in high school. Who knows?” He cracks a smile. “Maybe your team will make it to Nationals.”

He must be delusional if he thinks you’re going to play soccer in high school. Operation: ‘Travis plays varsity soccer’ was a failure, so now he’s going after you, ignoring the fact that you didn’t even get past the first wave of tryouts this year. You’re pretty sure that you’d actually be into soccer if it weren’t for all of the pressure your father puts on you.

It wasn’t up for negotiation when Dad said you and Travis were coming with the Yellowjackets to Seattle. You’re really not looking forward to this trip. Yeah, you get to miss school—but what is there to do in Seattle? Will you even be able to do anything besides sit around in your hotel and watch the tournament?

No matter how boring this trip may be, you’ll exaggerate every second of it to Owen when you get home.You’ll essentially sit on a plane with a bunch of girls for six hours and be around them for a week, and then summer finally begins. You really, really can’t wait to get this over with.

The next morning you rise at the crack of dawn. Everyone’s too drowsy to make conversation—except for Dad, that is. He’s talking your head off about soccer. You catch some of it, like how he’s upset about that Allie girl and her leg and how the “whole formation” is messed up now. He goes over some of the things you’re going to have to do as compensation for being allowed to come on the trip, like shagging balls during practice or loading equipment onto and off from the bus.

At the kitchen table, Mom passes you a plate of huevos and even lets you have a sip of her coffee. She looks worn out—more so than usual. The most you can do is flash her a warm smile and say “thank you”. You grimace at the bitter taste of the coffee, and that makes her laugh.

As you’re loading your stuff into the trunk of Dad’s car, Mom comes up from behind you and plants a kiss on your cheek. You feign disgust: “Ma, seriously, we’re only gonna be away for a week.”

“A week too long without you,” she says, and hugs you tight.

All of you board the plane one by one—a private jet issued by one of the girl’s fathers, so there’s plenty of space. Still, you’re crammed in between Dad and Travis at the front of the plane, kicking your feet and working on the piece of gum that Dad gave you. Travis seems annoyed by this arrangement, but you’re overjoyed.

Too bad you couldn’t bring your Game Boy. Dad said that it’d be too much of a distraction, but who says that you can’t play Tetris and watch the tournament at the same time? You have plenty of books though, and if you get really bored, there are some crossword puzzles stowed in the compartment in front of you.

Just a few more hours, then a week, and then you’ll be home free.

The plane is falling from the sky.

The plane is falling from the sky; it shakes and rattles like a maraca, and you’re crying, everyone is crying, and there’s no one to reach out to. You don’t even register the oxygen mask is in front of you until your dad’s arms drape over your body and he pulls it over your petrified face.

You try to call out to him: Stay, please stay with me as I die, but he’s already moving out of his seat to help the girls behind you.

Travis is ringing out a string of curses next to you. You’ve never seen him so frightened. His eyes are squeezed shut; he’s clutching your arm and ducking his dead down as he sobs and whispers and prays and curses some more.

You cover your ears. Your heart lurches out of your chest as you feel the wrench of the plane’s metal plummeting towards the ground. Your head is pounding, and your big brother is holding onto you like you’re a little boy again. Maybe even further back, when you were fresh out of the hospital, and Travis just lost his first tooth, and he’s cradling you in his arms and giggling as he grasps his entire hand around your tiny finger.

God, Dad, Mama, Travis… Please, stay with me. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die.

What happens next seems like cosmic intervention, but it’s far from over. You feel hands fumbling for your seatbelt and you see your brother, his headphones discarded, eyes ablaze with something furious and protective as he drags you down the aisle and out of the emergency exit. A fire rampages behind you. Smoke fills your lungs and you gasp at the intrusion, tripping over Travis and landing face-first into the dirt.

Bit-by-bit, the ringing in your ears abates, and your world sharpens into some manner of coherence. The drill of turbulence is replaced by the sound of deafening explosions and horrific screams. Your body aches. Maybe a peaceful death would have been a blessing.

You scramble to your feet and gather your surroundings. Travis is nowhere to be seen. Neither is your dad. Where is Dad? You need to find him first. He’ll know what to do.

You rub the soot out of your eyes and squint. Your throat burns as you try to shout, “Dad?” but it only comes out as a warbled cry. Where is he? You shake your hands around frantically and bite down on the inside of your cheek until you taste iron.

The three of you sat at the front of the plane—maybe he’s somewhere near there. You clamber on top of the rubble and scan the area. “Dad?”

“Oh God,” a voice muffled by the commotion, but it still catches your ear. Taissa pulls you by the arm and wipes your face. “It’s gonna be okay, Javi. Come on.”

What is she talking about? You mean to ask her, but the question escapes when she wraps her arm around you and nudges you forward. You notice the thick blood oozing down the side of her head, and you wonder if you’re injured anywhere, too.

Your train of thought is harshly interrupted by what you spot only a few feet away from you.

The crowd that was gathered around a piece of debris on the other side of the plane is now huddled around a tree, staring up at it like it’s a shooting star.

It’s your dad. He’s hanging from the branches of the tree like a marionette, bloodied appendages twisted in ways that shouldn’t even be possible. That’s your dad, and–

“He’s gotta be dead, right?”

The off-handed remark is a weight that smashes squarely into your chest. Shauna, you remember her from last practice—interlocks her arm with yours and glares at the direction of the voice.

That other girl, Natalie—she’s right, though. You keel over and Shauna catches you in her arms as you hyperventilate. “It’s okay,” she says. “Javi, it’s okay. Just look at me.”

You glance up at her through your mop of hair and blurry tears. She rubs circles around your elbows and utters soothing words. You begin to notice how awful this girl looks as well—there’s a cut along the bridge of her nose and her hair is disheveled and sticking out at all ends. She too, looks completely horrified, but here she is making sure that you’re alright.

The girls argue amongst each other as Shauna holds you back. In between their bickering, Travis makes a break for it; climbing up the tree despite the protests of the others. You watch in abject horror as he reaches for your father–

Until the branch snaps and his body hurtles to the ground with a resounding thud.

Your dad’s mutilated corpse stains the dirt a sickening red. A large stick punctures his heart and his eyes are so rolled back that they are unable to meet your gaze. The spear of your heartbreak strikes you in the rib, ripping open a fresh wound that has you falling to your knees.

Arms wrap firmly around you—Shauna is shushing you and petting your hair as you claw at her shirt. Helplessness, confusion, despair can’t even begin to describe it. All you can do is throw a fit of agonized wails until you have nothing left to give.

That night, you lay on the forest floor a few feet from the blazing fire. Dirt and pine needles and wood chips dig into your side. You’re using your backpack as a makeshift pillow. Still, you’re able to get some sleep in. You even have a dream, though it’s more of a memory.

You’re back home in your bedroom. Evening’s golden sun spills through your window and sketches dapples of light across your postered walls. You’re sitting at the edge of your bed, rubbing your socks against the shag carpet. Owen, despite being on the other side of the room, is close enough that you can see how handsomely his blond curls fall down his face. You recall that he was growing his hair out. You wish that you told him how nice it looked.

He’s fidgeting with the tape deck on top of your dresser. You got it as a birthday present from your abuela last year. Since then, you’ve been spending all of your allowance money at the video shop down the street.

Owen got you this new one, and he says that it’s going to “blow your mind”. You and Owen have wildly different music tastes, but you’re willing to dip your toes into the pool of hip-hop every once in a while. It’s a kind of tradition—Owen lets you put on the music you like when you come over to his, and you let him put on the music he likes when he comes over to yours.

He skips the first two songs on the tape and lands on the one he’s been raving about. “A Tribe Called Quest” booms through the speakers, and he nods his head along to the music.

Somehow, in some way, you know this song. Maybe you didn’t know it before, when this moment was happening in real time, but you know it now. And you can sing along.

“That’s how the runnings go!” You jump from your bed and sway to the beat.

You and Owen take turns shouting the lyrics. “If there ain’t no dough then there ain’t no show!”

This moment, this memory—it feels like a painting. It’s so vivid, and so visceral, that you can point out every freckle along Owen’s face and every speck of green in his eyes. As the two of you fill the space with your dancing, your eyes flit along the messy sheets of your unmade bed, the unsolved Rubix cube on your desk, your charcoal drawings tacked to your wall.

“So take your roly-poly fat promoter–”

When your dad bursts through the door, you can’t make out his expression. What you assume is his anger over the loud music melts like snow in the sun. His painting is unfinished. Everything is so perfect—down to the most minute detail, except for his face. You can’t remember your father’s face.

You’re ripped from your sleep and you wake up in a cold sweat. It’s still dark out. There’s a heavy pressure like a dumbbell that leaves your breath tight in your chest. All you can do to gauge the time is the mental math in your head and your little knowledge about REM sleep cycles, but you know that it’s still far too early.

Everything catches up to you. Where is Travis? Wasn’t he sleeping soundly right next to you? Did something happen to him? You shoot up from your place. The knot in your stomach tightens and you choke on a sob.

Through your blurry tears, you see– Travis, thank God, wide-eyed and illuminated by the dying fire, looking like a deer in headlights.

“Travis?” you whisper. “Is something there?”

He nearly jumps out of his skin, grabbing his chest as he whips around to face you. He’s trying to look nonchalant, for you, but there’s an unmistakable fear in his eyes that reflects from the embers of the campfire. “No,” he grunts. “Go back to sleep.”

The night’s breeze lifts up wisps of your hair. You tremble in this cold. “I had a bad dream.”

“Come on,” he sighs. “It’s just the woods. There’s nothing to be scared of.” You hope he doesn’t notice how damp your face is, or how the hairs on your arms stand on-end when he ushers you back to bed.

You settle back down on your stupid backpack-pillow, cover your face with your hands and turn over onto your side so you’re facing your brother. You’re not sure when it happens, but you fall back into a dreamless slumber.

It’s been three days. Three days, and not a single chopper, jet plane, or stray hiker has found you. It dawns upon you, as it does everyone else—help is not coming. Not for a while.

You rifle through your suitcase and do a double check that everything is still accounted for. Your clothes are slightly singed from the fire, but they’re in one piece. You’ve got toothpaste, a toothbrush, deodorant, and two of the books that you’re reading. Looking at them now, wondering how scarce these supplies are and how long they’ll last, you wish you had the foresight to pack more than you did.

Taissa comes barrelling through the trees, claiming that she’s found a lake, and that all of you should relocate until further notice. You’re not sure how you feel about leaving—you glance back to the grave you and the others dug for your father—but you’re also running out of water. It’s best to let the others decide.

In the end, the vote is for the lake, so you lug your suitcase behind you and pray that it doesn’t get caught in a stray root. Travis and some of the other girls are carrying Coach Scott in a stretcher as he writhes and groans in agony. You can’t bear to look at him.

You’re near the back of the line, where Shauna and her friend Jackie make idle conversation, and you reflect on how excruciating these past few days have been. No end in sight, contrary to what you thought, and the moans of Coach Scott ringing through the night make it nearly impossible to get any rest. What little sleep you do get is plagued by nightmares.

At least your leg didn’t get mangled under rubble and imprudently chopped off. At least your body isn’t in the ground, your soul perpetually hanging from the branch of a tree like a piece of cloth snagged by a thorn.

After you trek for a couple miles, you see it in the distance: an argent-silver lake nestled in the concave of the valley, hemmed by jagged mountains. The girls whoop and cheer as they race down the incline and break through the glistening waves.

You’re not going to swim. You don’t really know how, and you figure that the water is pretty cold anyway. You’d really like to scrub all of the dirt out of your skin, but you didn’t bring any body wash on the trip with you. You were counting on the hotel to keep that covered. Some of the girls brought their own hair and body wash—but you’re not close enough with them to know if they’d be okay with sharing.

You sit far away from the others and pull your knees to your chest. You watch the waves lap over each other and the games of chicken that the Yellowjackets are playing. Your eyes eventually find your brother. He looks so happy, and for an odd reason that makes you feel sick.

The gum in your mouth tastes tangy as you roll it over with your tongue, but you can’t bring yourself to part with it. It’s the very last piece of your dad that will carry his memory. It tastes disgusting now, and Travis is growing increasingly impatient with how you’re guarding it like a prized possession.

You take it out of your mouth and roll it around with your thumb and forefinger. It stretches grossly and you make a face at it before dropping it back into your mouth.

A figure approaches you and you straighten yourself up. Natalie must have seen all of that go down, because she’s hiding her smirk behind her towel when she asks, “What’s up?”

“Nothin’,” you say through smacks of your gum.

“You’re not gonna swim?”

You shake your head. It’s funny how Natalie’s the one who’s checking up on you and not Travis. She should go back to swimming with him instead of wasting her time.

She gestures towards the grassy spot next to you, and when you don’t reply, she takes it as a yes and sits with her legs extended in front of her. She tosses her towel aside and props herself up on her elbows; you notice her looking at you with the same amount of shame that everyone else has been sending your way for the past three days.

The tomb of silence opens when she says, “I’m sorry… about your dad.”

“S’okay.”

Natalie eyeballs you with a look that says is it?, but she doesn’t press. “It’s Natalie, by the way,” she offers shyly.

You already knew that, but you acknowledge her anyway. You don’t know all of the names of the Yellowjackets—only the ones that Dad mentioned during dinnertime. So, mostly the ones who play well, like Shauna or Taissa. You know Natalie’s name from the… distasteful gossipping about her among townsfolk.

“I think I see you on the bleachers during practice sometimes,” she continues. “You play soccer?”

“No, Dad made me come to all of your practices.” You really hope that it doesn’t come out bitterly, ‘cause it’s not like it’s their fault he dragged you out there for hours and hours. Besides, the Yellowjackets' practices could be interesting sometimes. Like when Number Eleven’s bone stuck out of her leg.

Natalie grins. “Ugh, sounds boring. That takes the fun right out of it.”

“Yeah, I mean…” You roll a rock around your fingers and let it tumble down the incline. “Travis wasn’t into soccer either, so Dad’s trying–” You cough into your fist. Natalie looks at you sympathetically. “He tried to get me on board.”

“And I’m guessing it didn’t work?”

“Didn’t work.”

You really like it when Natalie laughs at what you say, even when it isn’t supposed to be a joke. Despite what’s said during family gatherings, you think she’s really cool, and her kindness feels more grounded than how the others regard you. They’re trying, and you know that, but they just don’t understand.

She scooches a little closer, and you allow yourself to make direct eye contact with her for the first time. Doing so is usually painful, but with Natalie, it doesn’t feel like you’re being scrutinized and graded on your ability to socialize. “What are you into?” she asks.

It’s such a charged question, one you’re not familiar with. You’ve never been used to people asking about what you want to do, what you like, because it’s always been assumed.

“I kind of wanna be an artist…”—you start hesitantly, and she urges you to carry on—“but it doesn’t really pay a lot. I’ve got good grades in science, I could do that.”

“Don’t worry about what you’re gonna do right now. You’ve got a lot of time to think about it,” she says. “Just, like… pursue what makes you happy. You only live once, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you reply, giving her a bashful smile. You open yourself up to her more: you tell her about how your art teacher lets you stay after school and that you were in the gardening club till it disbanded because it didn’t have enough members. In turn, she tells you about how she plays bass—she and Van were even in a band with Van as the drummer, but they could never find a guitarist. She used to do stick-and-pokes on her friends, and the prospect of Natalie also being an artist makes you giddy.

The two of you are interrupted when some tall moony girl (Lottie, you think?) spots a cabin up the hill from the lake. The attitude toward it as your group explores the dust-lined cabin is treating it like it’s a frightened animal in a live documentary—trying to poke and prod into its life but still afraid of what it’ll do next. But it’s not a bear, or anything. It’s just a cabin.

One of the girls finds a porn magazine and everyone’s swarming around it like a moth to a flame. You’re naturally curious, so when Travis snatches one of them for himself, you decide to follow him outside.

More than anything, it’s just interest in the porn mags ‘cause they’re something you’re not used to. Your dad would never even let you look at Victoria's Secret. You remember one time when your uncle visited and he asked you if you were going to buy any Playboys with your Christmas money, and Dad yelled at him for twenty minutes straight.

“Let me see it.” You shrug your backpack off and smile at him through your gum. Travis turns his body away from you and folds the papers between his hands. “Come on, let me see it.”

Something dark flashes in Travis’ eyes and you realize that you’ve made a mistake; what mistake that was, you’re not sure. He rises and advances onto you. “Spit it out,” he says.

Your heels dig into the earth as you back away from him. The rims of your eyes heat up with incoming tears. “No.”

“Spit it out.” He grabs you by the collar of your shirt and you see your father’s rage spill out of his mouth. He puts your head in a lock like you’re a baby bird that will escape from its mother’s nest, and you can’t help but be reminded of your long-lost days of boyhood, of scraped knees, blood beneath the bandages, swings and misses and home-run bats against your jaw.

This is nothing like those moments, though. This is tangible. He would have pulled back by now. He would have grinned at you through his split lip and said good game. But his chokehold only presses deeper into your neck. You hit your fists against him, you squirm between his muscles, and he only lets go when your gum drops from your mouth and into the dirt.

He picks it up before you get the chance to. “Don’t you understand? Dad is”—he flings it into the bushes—“fucking dead!”

Travis is right. You know he’s right. He’s right in the way that doesn’t leave him all smug and mighty like how he usually is when you don’t see eye-to-eye. This realization is heavy like a festering cloud, and you hate him for it. Dad is– was a dick. He’s the reason you’re all here, and now he’s dead.

Your eyes chase Travis and he stares at something distant, looks back at you, then leaves you quivering on the ground. You curl into yourself, limp like a wet leaf as you knead the earth with your hands. Dirt crawls under your fingernails and you stay like that until twigs dig into the skin of your elbows and your face is creased with sharp lines.

You wish that your stupid dad didn’t make you come on this stupid trip. You wish that the stupid Yellowjackets didn’t win stupid States. You’re twelve years old and you’ll never see your dad again. You’re the one that’s ripped into being alive. And it’s pain, it’s suffering, and sometimes you wish that Dad had taken you with him.

The people that didn’t spare you a second glance before the plane crash are now treating you very kindly. Probably because they all know your dad died, and that you’re not actually supposed to be here.

(Javi, wanna come and gather lake water with me? You can have some of my food, Javi. Hey Javi, Travis told me that your birthday’s coming up—we should totally throw a party! Javi, Javi, Javi. I’m sorry your dad died, Javi. That really sucks. He was a great coach. I’m gonna miss him. Glad to see that you’re hanging in there, Javi!)

Travis is trying too, and you’ll give him some credit for that—even if you’re still mad at him. He barges out of the cabin with a rifle in his hand and gestures it towards you. “Yo Javi, come try this,” he says.

Blood roars like a lion in your ears. You’re not going to forgive him so easily. You glare up at him with hooded eyes and mumble a “fuck you” before storming off.

You hear a chorus of oohs from the Yellowjackets as you round the cabin, and you know it’s because you swore at him. You’re the youngest, you’re a commodity, you stage an act of defiance against your brother for what he did to you and to them that’s just hilarious. It makes you livid.

You stuff your hands in your pockets and study the ground as you walk. You’ve never been back here before, but you pick up the drizzle of a stream not far from you. You let your bare arms take the hit of scratchy bushes and thorns until you finally make your way to a side of the cabin you’ve never been before. Your shoes fill up with warm, dirty water and you struggle to hold back your disgust.

Perched atop a log overlooking the stream is Shauna. Her brows are pinched together and there’s a hard line in her jaw. She’s scribbling in some book, and you almost decide to back away and give her some space—but she’s already noticed water sloshing and she looks over in your direction.

Approaching her with uncertainty, you ask, “You’re not doing the gun thing?”

“Oh, um…” She lifts her leg onto the log and puts the book in her lap. “I don’t really think I’m meant to handle firearms.”

For a moment you wonder if there’s a double meaning to that. With how many red cards Shauna has collected over the season, maybe the others don’t trust her with dangerous weapons. You decide to not dwell on it. “What are you writing?”

“It’s my journal,” she replies.

“Like… a diary?”

“Yeah, kind of.”

She talks about how it lets her make sense of the… situation, which is a word that hangs so heavy that you’re not sure an essay written in MLA formatting could even begin to describe it. If this were something that happened to everyone and not just you, then your English teacher would probably count it for half of your grade.

(Write about the time you watched your dad die in a plane crash in three paragraphs or more. Don’t forget to cite your sources!)

The sound of paper ripping pops your bubble of thought. “Here,” Shauna says, and she hands you a page from her journal. “There’s no wrong way to do it.”

You hope that the look you give her lets her know that you’re grateful. You turn the other way, smooth the sheet of paper over with your hands and think about how empty and daunting it looks. You’ve never really written in a journal before (Dad always said that diaries are for girls, and journals are just the same thing as diaries). You have this feeling that whatever you write just won’t do what you’re feeling justice.

Everything inside is like a warzone of nerves. Your thoughts are No Man’s Land—you can’t even voice what you want to say aloud—how could you possibly write about all of these raw emotions, emotions that don’t even have definitions in the dictionary?

Is it grief? Is that it? No, it’s so much more than that. It’s melancholy, it’s suffering, it’s humiliation. It’s not being sure whether you’re alive or if this is just a terrible, horrible nightmare. It’s being ripped apart by the dog’s teeth of your heart, the bloody mess of that day, missing a softness that was never there, and making it up along the way to justify all of this haunting.

Damn, maybe you should be writing this down. No, it wouldn’t make any sense anyway. You shouldn’t waste paper with pointless ideas.

You tuck the paper into your pocket and leave it for another time—like when you get home—that’s when you’ll write a book about this place. Gunshots rattling in the distance make you jump, so you hide behind a tree a couple yards away from the cabin and wait for them to be over.

The sun waves goodbye and disappears behind the mountainside. The others are gathered around the fire, while you sit on a log and cup lake water into your hands to wash the grime from your face. Earlier someone had remarked how dirty you looked—now you’re a bit conscious of how you’re presenting yourself to these girls.

Out of the corner of your eye, Travis pulls something from his pocket that gleams in the fire’s light. He holds it in front of you with a nervous cantor, and you let yourself get a better look at it. It’s a ring. Not just any ring, it’s Dad’s ring. Where did he get this?

“Hey, uh, I kind of forgot that I had this,” Travis says. “Wanna hold onto it?”

He drops it into your hand and you hold it like it’s precious treasure. Your eyes dance along the engravings and the beautiful silver stone at its crest. You give Travis a smile and then you go back to ogling the ring.

Akilah lets you borrow a piece of string from her crochet project so you can wear the ring as a necklace. You don’t speak to her often, but she’s the closest to you in age and you feel like the two of you have something in common—being that you aren’t supposed to be here.

The necklace has a dull pressure on your chest that you easily get used to. When you’re too restless to sleep, you examine the ring in the dark and slip it through your finger. It’s a little loose, but you don’t mind. It’s just like he’s with you. He’s a divine thing now, watching over you like a Guardian Angel.

Still, you can’t stop dreaming about the mundane, and the dreams are so vivid that they feel true.

Tonight you dream about coming home. You drop your bags at the door and kick your muddied sneakers onto the soft linen rug. Your mother’s cooking wafts into your nostrils; you hear your father’s booming laughter as he watches television in the other room.

Mom pulls you to the kitchen counter and massages your shoulders from behind. Your shaky fingers reach for a spoon as you shovel soup into your mouth. It nearly burns your tongue, but the warmth of it trickles down your chest like a stream.

You’re reminded what love is. Rubbing sunscreen in the places you can’t reach. Adjusting your collar mid-sentence. Passing ingredients back and forth to each other—could you pass the milk, please? You can crack the last egg, if you want. Here, come lick the batter off my spoon.

There’s so much to say. It’s been such a long time. You reach behind for her, and–

You rise, in the morning, alone. Your cheeks are stained wet and you can no longer taste any remnants of your mom’s cooking—only the salty teardrops in your mouth.

The old floorboards creak under your weight as you tiptoe into the cabin’s makeshift kitchen. There’s a figure around the corner and you half-expect to see your father sitting at the table, reading the paper and sipping on coffee. It’s only Shauna, though.

She greets you with a hint of surprise in her voice. You know why you’re up early, but why is she? Maybe it’s for the same reason. You wish you could breach these topics, but you’re not even sure where to begin.

(Are you also having dreams that feel like nightmares? Or is it only a nightmare when you wake up? Do you miss it back home? Do you want to be rescued, or do you just want it to be over?)

You swallow these thoughts and leave them for another time, like the silence of the night when it feels like you’re the only one alive. You drag your socked feet along the dusty kitchen floor and take a look at what Shauna’s up to. Everything’s kind of scattered, but you spot the neat handwriting of her journal on the table. You avert your eyes—you probably wouldn’t want anyone else gawking at your innermost thoughts.

She smiles at you and asks if you want some blueberries. You nod eagerly. The two of you share, and then you leave some for whoever wakes up after you.

Shauna shuts her journal and asks, “Have you written anything down yet?”

You shake your head. “Can’t really… find the words for it.”

“I get it. Sometimes it’s just a lot. And…” Her eyes eclipse and you know exactly what she’s thinking about. It’s the same look that everyone else has been giving you for the past week and a half. Condolences with their collective memories strung together like beads on a rosary, with their tight-lipped smiles, their empty offerings.

When you don’t reply, she continues. “It’s okay if you can’t think of anything. It’ll come to you.”

The two of you stand in silence for what feels like ages. Then, your eye catches the knife that swings from her belt. You wring your hands as you ask, “I was wondering– um, if I could”—You clear your throat and gesture to her knife—“borrow that? For, like, an art project. It’s probably dumb.”

She quirks an eyebrow. “What kind of art project?”

You don’t really know how to explain what you want to do, so you just say, “I promise I’ll be careful with it.”

Shauna nods and unhooks it to hand it from her belt. She lifts it up before she hands it to you, and gives you a pointed look that reminds you of your mother. “Seriously… if you cut yourself with this thing, then Travis and Coach are going to blame me.”

“I’m not that stupid,” you respond, and she lets out such an infectious laugh that you can’t help but smile, too.

“All right,” she says, and places the knife in your hand. You’re careful with it—you hold it like you’d hold craft scissors when you’re walking across the classroom. Face down, gripping the handle.

You slip your shoes on and head out the door, careful not to let it make much noise when you shut it behind you. The whole “asking Shauna for her knife” thing was a bit short-sighted of you, but you have a vague idea of your model and you’re going to stick with it. You’re just not really sure how to go about it.

It takes a few minutes of turning over logs and running in circles around the cabin, but you finally find the perfect one. It’s short and thick, and you can make a small figurine out of it. You’re going for a fox, because they’re your favourite animal. Your fascination with them started all the way back when you read about them in elementary school, and how they’d bury their little heads in burrows and create entire cities with underground tunnels.

It’d be nice to hide away forever. You wouldn’t have to prove anything to anyone. You wouldn’t have your classmates’ probing eyes on you as you listen to their whispers behind your back. You wouldn’t have to play soccer or get a good grade in math or worry about what’s going to happen when all of this is over. If you were an animal like a fox, you could just be.

You follow the trail to the lake and you’re surprised by how desolate it looks, even at the height of spring. The waters themselves are enshrouded with a thick mist that reminds you of the coast back at home. That’s about where the similarities end, though, because instead of soft sand or white water rafts it’s grainy pebbles and small ripples that attract all kinds of gross bugs. You sit with your back pressed to one of the washed-up branches and study the piece of wood you found earlier.

At first, it’s hard to get the hang of. The knife is dull and sometimes you have to push down on it with your thumb to get it to go through. You kind of feel like one of those people in Athens who would chip at marble and make statues of Greek gods. They’d probably have some pointers for you.

Your project takes long enough that the fog settled across the lake eventually fades and makes way for some sunlight. You don’t really know what time it is—just that everyone else is probably awake by now. Nimble fingers work on the final touches, and then you hold the wood up and close one eye to get a good look at it.

It’s definitely not perfect, but it does look like a fox. The edges are so sharp that you’re scared they’ll nick you. Your hands throb from the labour and your foot’s starting to fall asleep. You shake your tired limbs and head back towards the cabin.

As expected, there aren’t any sleeping bodies you have to step over when you arrive. Everyone’s busy with their chores, each of them buzzing like a colony of bees. You head straight for the attic and carefully place the fox figurine on the windowsill, as well as Shauna’s knife. One last do-over to make sure that you’re confident with the result, then you nod to yourself and retreat back downstairs.

Akilah beckons you over. She and a few other girls are in ecstatic conversation that you can’t quite follow. You wander over to get a better look, and they all regard you with some level of approval.

“Javi, Van found the mixtape she brought on the trip,” she exclaims. “It’s got, um… Montell Jordan, and some other good songs on there. We’re gonna do a dance routine. Wanna join?”

You’re not really sure what you’re thinking about before you say yes. Why would you decline anyway? No, you’re busy. You’ve got so many things to do out in the middle of nowhere. The thought makes you chuckle inwardly.

Another girl, Mari, takes your hand and explains the routine in a way that makes your head spin. It can’t actually be this complicated, can it?

“You got it?” She looks at you expectantly.

“Uh… yeah.”

“Great.” She claps you on the forearm and you wince at the contact.

You spend the next few hours practicing the routine—with music, without music, with steps and moves you can’t remember the names of and Mari getting increasingly authoritarian with all of you when someone isn’t on beat. Not once do you think that it’s a drag, though. This is the most fun you’ve had in ages.

By the time the sun has gone down, nearly everyone has joined in on this dance routine. It’s structured at first, but eventually you’re just showing off freeform dance moves for Coach Scott. You’re doing kid ‘n plays with Taissa and it reminds you of the kind of stuff that you’d do with Owen, dancing like you’re the only two people in the entire world.

You’re winding down by the window with a book in your lap after the fact—you brought the second installation of Narnia with you on the trip, because you’ve already read the first one three times, and this one you’ve only read twice. The pages are a little bit singed from the fire, but the base of the book is still intact.

“Javi! Whatcha reading?” You snap your head up and see the Yellowjackets’ equipment manager—Misty, you think—and someone else you don’t quite recognize. You set your book face-down on the bench next to you.

You don’t answer. Really, it’s embarrassing. Kids your age don’t read fairytales anymore. You like comic books and action movies and M-rated video games as much as anyone else your age, but you also like stories that are fantastical and beyond the scope of your own imagination.

That must make you look even more suspicious, because the girl you don’t know gapes, “Is he reading American Psycho or something?”

“No one knows what that is, Crystal,” Mari retorts from across the room.

You don’t know what that is either. You just shake your head and bite down on your tongue. Turning over the book to show the cover, you say, “It’s just… Prince Caspian.”

Misty practically shoves Crystal to the side as she gasps, “Oh my gosh! Like from Narnia, right? I loved those books when I was a kid. Edmund was so dreamy…”

This girl just keeps talking, and that’s about when you’ve properly zoned out—until Crystal finally interrupts her and asks you what other books you’ve read.

You’re not really used to this kind of thing, whatever this is. You didn’t think that anyone else saw you. “Um, I guess… Lord of the Rings.”

“Really? Me too!” Crystal exclaims. “Who’s your favourite character?”

You shrug. To be honest, you haven’t really thought about it. “I dunno. Boromir?”

Crystal seems surprised by that. “Huh, I thought you’d be a Frodo kind of guy.”

What does she even mean by that? These kinds of thoughts you often keep to yourself, but you can’t help but say, “Yeah, but… Frodo’s the main character. Of course I’m gonna like him. That’s like, a given.”

Misty and Crystal look at you, and then at each other like your head came unattached. They’ve each got these goofy smiles too, and you just can’t figure out why.

Then Mari shouts, “Dude, you broke Javi!”, inciting raucous laughter throughout the entire cabin.

When it’s finally time for bed, you lay awake and let your thoughts wander. Does Owen think that you’ve died in the plane crash? Knowing him, he still has some wayward hope—yet the thought of you being a memory to him still makes your heart ache.

You make it your own vow that you’ll get home and let him know that you’re alive, that you just went down a rabbit hole and got lost in a magical world. You’ll teach him all of the dance moves you learned today, and how to carve wood with a knife and how to know which berries are good to eat and which ones will make you puke. You’re eventually eased to sleep with these comforting thoughts.

The past weeks have been hard to digest. Events that feel like they should be self-contained almost feel connected, in a way. Lottie goes crazy during an impromptu seance. Maybe it’s that ordeal that leads to Taissa and a few other girls going on an excursion, or maybe it’s something else entirely.

Anyway, the expedition goes as well as you expected. There are very few things that keep you hopeful these days, and watching Van get her face stitched together with sewing needles in between Travis’ form makes everything all the more grim. Shauna is pregnant, which is an entirely different story and something you won’t think too much about as to respect her privacy.

Regardless, you’re pretty sure that those events lead to some Yellowjacket (you’ve decided to dub her ‘Christian Girl’ because you just can’t remember her actual name, and she holds an extreme faith that’s only rivaled by your abuela) to fly an old plane to find help.

And then the plane blows up. In mid-air. So it seems that anything to keep all of you on your toes—something to finally pray for at night—all of it’s just a waste.

It kind of feels like everyone’s just pulling at frayed strings when they suggest a thrown together Homecoming– “Doomcoming”, they’re calling it. You don’t know much about high school events or what you’re supposed to do, but you figure that that’s not really important out here. You know about Prom, and how you bring a date, so you’re guessing that Homecoming is just the same thing.

Everyone else is getting ready. You’re fiddling with your tie—do you loop it over or under first? How does this thing even work? You sigh exasperatedly; you don’t need to wear a tie, anyway.

“Wait, that’s not how you do it.” A familiar voice protrudes your attention. Travis smiles fondly at you and takes the ends of your tie in his hands. “Here,” he says, and you let him take the reins.

As he loops the tie around your collar, it dawns upon you that there will always be a replacement for something. Dad taught you how to tie your shoes when you were in kindergarten. Bunny ears, bunny ears! He would holler at you, and only when you were on the brink of tears would he bend down on one knee and do it himself.

Travis reminds you of your father in that way. You’ll never tell him this because you know it’ll make him upset. Your father wasn’t a very good person. He wasn’t bad, either, just like how Travis isn’t bad. Dad just raised him to be more honest than kind. He blows up at you and he calls you a crybaby and he steals your Halloween candy, but he’s not bad.

When you come home with slumped shoulders and glassy eyes, he doesn’t ask you what happened—just who did it. The next day at school, the kids who were teasing you sport nasty bruises and black eyes.

There are things that you wish you could say to Travis. Like thank you. How much ground would that cover? It could range from “thank you for helping me with my tie” to “thank you for surviving when Dad didn’t”. That’s not something that Travis did though, right? All of this, it’s just luck. Maybe you should just start with the little things, like the things that you can control.

Travis slides the bow of your tie so that it fits snug around your neck. “You ready?” he asks, and you nod. He studies you for a moment, and then he takes his fingers and pushes your hair back so that it’s out of your face. “We need some gel or something. Keep this bird’s nest out of your face.”

You snort as you take one of the strands of your hair in between your thumb and your forefinger. “It’s not a bird’s nest, it’s a lion’s mane.”

“Oh, is it?” Travis gives you the kind of look when he’s thinking about picking a fight with you, but it disappears quickly. “Maybe you’re right. Girls dig long hair.”

“I know I’m right,” you say.

“Don’t get smart.” He ruffles your hair back to its original shape.

You consider shoving him playfully—to see how he’d react—but someone calls you over and says that it’s starting. This gets your attention. See, you get to bang the gong (which is just a piece of metal that you’re smacking with another piece of metal, but if it makes a gong sound, then it’s a gong). Gong privileges have had you excited all day. Everyone kept saying: “only bang the gong once, no more than that,” but you don’t see any reason why you can’t do it a couple of times.

Everyone else has their moment to shine as they waltz in through the makeshift entryway, showing off their gowns and their vests and their makeup. Something that catches your eye is Van glued to Taissa’s side. They look a little bit out of their element, and you can sense the fear from them like a dog.

They kiss, and the crowd erupts into cheers and hurrahs. Your grin stretches to your ears. Something that you thought was distant and untouchable, Taissa and Van were able to put it into one powerful action. You think—just for a moment, that is—that when you get home, maybe you’ll be able to explore it.

You’re gathered around aimlessly until Lottie gives a lengthy toast about Christian Girl. She has the same fixed look of mourning that your mom often owns; you keep your head bowed low to avoid the uncanny resemblance.

The others break up into their own groups and you’re sitting on one of the logs, shovelling mushroom soup into your mouth. Coach Scott had insisted that you weren't allowed to have any of the wine, but Natalie comes up beside you and lets you have a bit of hers when he isn’t looking.

"How's it taste?" she asks.

"Not that good," you admit through pursed lips.

She laughs and pats you on the back. You can’t help but glimpse at her shifting uncomfortably next to you, looking at something, then back to you, and then back at the ground like a broken record.

You open your mouth to ask her if she’s okay, but she beats you to it. “Just so you know, I’m not– I mean, I wasn’t… me and Travis aren’t–”

The look you give her seems to immediately sober her up. You know she’s lying, you’ve heard the quips that everyone makes towards her and Travis when they come back from hunting. Even if no one else knew, you like to think that you’d be able to sniff it out.

Natalie looks like she’s been caught stealing from the cookie jar. “Sorry.” She smiles sheepishly.

Your brother has never really been open about his feelings. You know vaguely of how Travis was bullied when he was younger, of his nickname, but he was cagey with his information and you never wanted to pry. What you do know is that if this were any other girl, he’d shoot down the teasing immediately.

“I think he really likes you,” you say. Maybe she already knows that. You’re not really saying it to affirm any feelings, but to give her your unofficial blessing.

“I know,” she whispers, so light that you don’t think it’s even for your ears.

The two of you end up going into lengthy detail about how, affectionately put, lame Travis can be sometimes. As much as you look up to him, you have a bunch of childhood stories that you’re willing to share with her—embarrassing enough to make her snicker, but not crude enough to taint your brother’s image. When you guys get back, maybe you can show Natalie some of his baby photos. She’d probably love that.

Eventually Natalie wanders off with Coach Scott and you’re left on your own. The average Homecoming experience (especially for you) would probably include the part where you’re surrounded by so many people, with flashing strobe lights and music that pounds like a jackhammer in your head and that dizzy feeling from the punch or otherwise, but you still feel completely alone.

You shouldn’t be thinking about these things. You’re supposed to be having fun, even though this party is based on your “inevitable” death, which you think is pretty pessimistic.

Tonight, you’ll celebrate that you’re still alive. You’ll drink gross mushroom soup; maybe Van will get her mixtape working again and you’ll finally be able to finish your dance routine. The world is your oyster, you think. You’re going to make the most of tonight.

Things aren’t really going as you planned. You’re not sure why, but you feel really weird. You only had a bit of the berry wine, but it’s kind of like how you imagine it feels to be drunk. You don’t have any anthologies from being drunk; you’ve never had alcohol until today, so you really can’t be certain.

You’re laying on your back and staring up at the sky, at the canopy of trees and the hypnotic shapes they take. The sunlight that shines through the gaps are called “crown shyness”—you learned that from a book. You giggle to yourself. That’s so funny. The crowns are shy.

You’re like a tree right now. A horizontal one, a log. Your fingers are the roots and they suck up the minerals with the selfishness of a father. You’re a garden bed; you’re the soil and the leaves and your skin is the bark of the twigs. Your skin feels like bark. Ugh. You try to scratch at it, but everything moves in slow-motion. By the time your hands reach your face, it’s already nighttime, and you’re no longer itchy.

You tilt your head to the side and you’re met with a buzzing pain in the crook of your neck. The sky was so interesting a few minutes ago, but now everything’s all dark and gloomy. Instead of the gaps between trees, you can point out the empty spaces among atoms, the negative charges around electrons and the tiny microscopic grains of sand and dirt and rocks beneath your fingertips.

When you wave your hand in front of your face, you see smudges between the movements like they’re the streaks of lights during late-night drives. Your cheek is pressed against the window, your knees are pulled up to your nose, your eyelids are drooping like they’re fighting consciousness and losing. It’s your father’s voice that jolts you awake. He says–

“Where is everyone?”

“Nat and Coach are friends?”

“What about Jackie? And Travis?”

“They left,” you tell Dad’s overlapping voices. They’re different in pitch and sync, but they all blend into one. God, you’ve missed his voice.

“Together?” Dad says. “That’s so Jackie.”

“That’s very Jackie.”

You squeeze your eyes shut and rub them with your palms until you see double the stars. Another voice, a voice that’s not Dad’s—because you know this voice, it’s Mom’s voice. “She’s not doing anything wrong, though.”

Your breath feels tight in your chest. You draw your lips into a frown and say, “But… what are they doing?”

You’re not naive. You saw them dancing together at the party. You didn’t really know that they were boyfriend and girlfriend, but you guess that anything can happen out here in the wilderness. With the way that Travis glances in Natalie’s direction, looks at Natalie… you really thought that there was something going on between them. Maybe you just don’t understand how relationships work. If he wants to be with Jackie, then fine—even if you think she’s a nosy metiche.

Everything’s fading away. The voices are sped-up, slowed down, twisted and turned until they just sound like monotonous ringing. You sink into the dirt, but none of them notice. The sky's the only one who listens to you. The moon smiles at you, and you smile back.

Before you know it, you’re alone. Where did everyone else go? Your scalp prickles. You push yourself up by the sticks of your arms and sit up. It’s a ghost town. The pit of your gut is engulfed by a nameless dread. You should go look for him. Them. Who are you even looking for?

Hoots and howls ring off in the distance, and you’re snapped back into clarity. They’re coming from the south. You clamber after them, kicking up dirt in the process.

The screams are getting closer. You’re not even sure if calling it “screams” is doing it justice—these sounds are made from primal animals. From predators advancing onto their prey, backing them into a corner and taunting them saying: I’ve got you now! Nowhere to run!

Your pulse thuds in your skull. Shapes, flashes of figures and movement catch your eye in the distance. You duck low and conceal yourself among the foliage. They’re running from something. Is it another wolf? Or, God… a bear? Should you hide somewhere else? Why are they making so much noise?

Someone’s following behind them, a bit slower than the rest—someone finally familiar and recognizably human, or at least as close to human as she can be.

“Shauna,” you whisper-shout at her.

You get a closer look at her and she starts to look less and less like the Shauna you know. Crazed eyes catch your hiding place and she wrenches towards you in sharp, jerky motions. Her lips are smeared with– is that blood?

Something is controlling Shauna, like dogs with rabies or those deers that have brain-rotting parasites or the zombies from Night of the Living Dead. Teeth and all, she growls at you in a voice as rough as hemp: “Run.”

So you do just that.

You run and run, whipping through branches and leaves and not taking a single second to look behind you. The ground meshes into the sky. You can’t see a single thing in front of you, you don’t even know where you’re going, but you’ve never been so sure of something in your life. You’ll keep running, you’ll escape whatever nightmare this is. You’ll run until you can’t run anymore–

Or, you’ll run until you trip over a root you don’t see. It’ll taunt you as you hook your foot under it, and the floor will sweep out underneath you like a rug, and you’ll fall face-first into the abyss. More accurately, you’ll clunk your head against the forest floor, and the last thing you’ll register is a mouth full of dirt and a vibrant baritone pounding in your eardrums.

The first thing you notice when you wake up is the feeling of your teeth inside of your mouth. It doesn’t register until later that it must have been from the fall, but they feel numb and tingly. You swipe your tongue across your front teeth and a jolt of pain travels all the way up to your brain. A groan escapes your chapped lips and you turn over on your back, trying to ignore the aches of bones rusted from staying in one position for far too long.

The second thing you notice is that it’s still dark out. This is around the time where rich white people who only drink cleansing kale juices will wake up for their four-in-the-morning run. The dark a few hours ago was a dark that consumed the entire world and put it to rest. Now, the breeze against your face isn’t so suffocating.

You still feel lightheaded, though. And you haven’t forgotten what happened after Doomcoming. It’s something you’ve only had so much time to mull over, so it feels unprecedented and you’re still scared and confused. What you do know is that you can’t go back.

It takes a combined effort of every muscle in your body, but you rise from where you’re laying down. You brush the leaves out of your hair and the dust off your shoulders. All right, now you’re ready. For… what, exactly? You don’t even have anything with you.

The direction of the cabin was back there, right? No, maybe it was over there…

You try to recall that rhyme you were taught in the classroom in elementary school. You point and turn as you whisper to yourself, “Never eat soggy waffles.”

You should probably go north. North is Polar Stars and sleds pulled by huskies and travellers’ ways home. You finally understand that finding the Yellowjackets is really the last thing you want, so you’ll go north.

What you’re worried about is when dusk comes and you won’t have any shelter. This story has been told before, and you don’t want to end up like Van—or worse. Shelter seems futile, but you could try. You remember that your dad taught you how to hypothetically make a fire during one of your camping trips. Key word: hypothetically.

“North” turns into going wherever looks interesting, which turns into wandering around aimlessly. The just-risen sun leaks through the leaves. It brings a quiet that you don't exactly associate with early mornings. You weren’t used to it before the crash, because if Dad didn’t wake you up at the first sign of daylight, then Travis did. You’re definitely not used to it now, because no time can be wasted if you’re fighting for survival out in the wilderness.

No one has found you yet. You’re pretty sure they’re not even looking—one less mouth to feed. You really don’t care either way. You don’t want them to look for you. Those girls last night were like aliens in human body suits. If they find you again, they’ll probably hunt you down and kill you for sport.

Hours must have passed since you’ve been walking. You’re at the edge of the forest now; this is the farthest you’ve ever gone. You can even see the valleys of mountains on the horizon, like turrets built tall to keep you out. Helplessness rushes in through all sides of you, and it feels like drowning.

Your legs drag heavy under your weight. You slump down to the nearest tree and lean your back against the trunk, digging your crusted fingernails into the wound of the bark. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice that it’s engraved with some sort of symbol that you swear you recognize, you just can’t remember from where. When you feel for the grass with the sole of your palm, it caves underneath you.

What the hell?

You don’t know what you’re thinking when you lower your hand a bit deeper. Sure enough, it doesn’t stop there. Soon your entire arm all the way up to your shoulder has been swallowed by the… hole?

You yank your arm out as you’ve been bitten. You’re worried that your curiosity has gotten the best of you, and that you’ve stumbled upon something you weren’t meant for. You rub the cuffs of your wrists and observe this new discovery. It's bigger than you thought, and nothing has jumped out of it and tried to kill you—yet.

Ever-so cautiously, you crouch down and squint into the opening of the hole. This is exactly what Alice shouldn’t have done, but Natalie’s words echo through your head—You only live once.

You sit back up and hoist yourself so you’re going in feet-first, allowing yourself to be absorbed by whatever awaits you.

Instead of falling down into Wonderland, the tips of your toes meet a damp surface. Relief washes over you; the breath you were holding in is whisked away and you graze your fingers against the wall for balance.

It’s hard to see in here—the only source of light is coming from the sun shining through the hole, and even then there are unbroken shadows dominating the room like wildflowers. You hate to say it, but this muggy, rock-ribbed cave that smells distinctly of mold is your new home.

The cabin wasn’t your home either, but at least it had the one thing that’s always been constant in your life: Travis. You’ve known Travis since the moment you’ve opened your eyes, and he’s only known you since he was five years old. That’s weird to think about; if he were to think back to the first five years of his life, then your presence isn’t expected. But Travis, he’s always been there for you.

If Travis is dead—and for your own sake, it’s better to assume that he is—you can’t let your grief hold you back. You’ll carry it like heavy skipping stones in your pocket. You look at it like this: you did it once, you can do it again, and there’s nothing more you want to do right now than survive.

For all purposes, this dumb cave under the roots of a tree is your base of operations. It’s definitely more than enough for one person in space, even if it lacks in luxury. You’re going to have to adapt to the smell, and you’re a bit under-equipped compared to when you stayed at the cabin. No food, no way to make food, no weapons to find food…

No, it’s fine. Everything will work itself out. This place was meant for you—it’s telling you to keep pushing. You drag your feet along the cold hard stone and drop down to your knees. There are things to take note of, like the small holes along every crevice of the cave, but right now, you are just so, so tired. You lower your body, as if you were a stone on the riverbed, to the cold lichened floor. Exhaustion sucks you into a vacuum of much-needed sleep.

A week has passed, give or take, since you’ve relocated. It snowed the night after Doomcoming, and since then you’ve been trapped in this compact cave with nothing but a crummy fire to keep you going. Using the bow drill method (you made one out of a stick you found not far from the tree and tied it with your shoelace), you were able to make a spark after several attempts.

It’s one thing to find shelter and start a fire and it’s another thing to hunt for food, find a water source, purify the water, and try to not go off the deep end. That’s a whole lot easier said than done.

Hunger claws at your insides; your stomach twists and turns like a roller coaster and you have the urge to throw up your organs every five minutes. You’re laying on the floor—the same stone floor you’ve been curled up on for who knows how long, and the stabbing pain in your side when you take even the shallowest breath is what finally makes you take action.

With all the time you’ve had in here, you’ve realized two things. One: this place—not just this cave, but the entire Wilderness itself—it’s more connected than you thought. Two: the Yellowjackets aren’t looking for you, and even if they are, then they’re not going to find you.

You’ve had a hard time figuring out the layout of the cave, but you’ve spent your time exploring the various tunnels. They feel like they go on for miles when you’re crawling through them army style, your elbows perpendicular to your chin and the top of your head brushing the dirt ceiling.

One of the tunnels led you south, to somewhere you didn’t recognize. When you crawled through another hole, you came to a tall pine tree not far from the creek—meaning not far from the cabin. It had the same symbol that was carved in the tree you found at first, which may be an indicator of which areas are connected to this central hub. How could an animal have done all of this?

At first the thought scared you, but you soon realized that you could take advantage of it. It’d have to be done without you being noticed, which is something you’ve found yourself to be good at anyway, but you could go back to the cabin and borrow food, assuming they have any.

Maybe it isn’t “borrowing” if you aren’t going to give it back. Whatever. You’ll repay them if you ever find your own food.

It’s a particularly cold night when you decide on this high-risk, high-reward mission. The days are so short and the nights are so long that it’s difficult for you to figure out when everyone else is asleep. You just have to hope for the best.

You squeeze through the roots of the tree near the frozen creek, you tread along delicate snow patterns and you breathe through your mouth to feel the cold air travel down your throat. You’re severely underdressed and you know that—your Doomcoming outfit is doing hardly anything to protect your skin against the harsh winds.

It isn’t long until you come up to the side of the cabin. You crouch down and scale along the wall near the back. You listen for anything coming from the cabin, but all you can hear is the thump of your heartbeat and the whistling in your ears.

The window to the boys’ room is frozen shut. You wipe the condensation from the glass and peer inside; Coach Scott is draped across the bed—you can’t help but giggle to yourself at how silly he looks. When Coach Scott sleeps, he always looks like he’s limb-locked and dying of the plague.

You try to get a better look at the floor, but you can’t see past the bed and his body. You know that your backpack is somewhere in this room, and you’re hoping to find someone else, too.

Your fingers are raw and red from trying to pry open the window with your bare hands, and it’s at this moment that you regret not participating in gym class more. Bits of ice prick under your fingernails as you claw pathetically at the sill. One last push, and you’re about to give up– when the window pops open just an inch.

Success! You can’t let yourself celebrate ahead of time, but the adrenaline rushes all the way to your head and the jitters in your nerves come to a satisfying halt. You experimentally lift the window another inch, and it makes a sound that nearly has you parachuting back and running straight for the trees.

Coach Scott doesn’t stir, though. You study his sleeping face, so peaceful compared to the permanent bunched-up scowl he wears during the daytime. You hope that he’s having a nice dream.

Slowly, like peeling a sticker, you keep your fingers under the wooden plank and poke your head in, then your torso, then you swing your legs over and lower your toes to the floor so as to not make a sound.

You spot your suitcase from across the room, but your backpack is nowhere to be found. Knowing the Yellowjackets, they’ve already passed your stuff around like a communal jug. You can’t bring your whole suitcase with you, and you’re too afraid to stay here and snoop around for your backpack.

You fall back to the windowsill, when in the corner of your eye: your big brother in the flesh, tossing and turning and holding onto his blanket like Mama says he would when he was a baby. He occasionally lets out a grunt, kind of like he’s having a really terrible nightmare. You freeze, watching him against your better judgement—your fists open and close and open and close and you feel everything, your entire plan going down the drain.

Something jostles loose in your head and you catch it with your bare hands. You could wake Travis up, explain everything to him… You could bring him with you. Would he understand? Would he want to come with you? It’s a gamble of whether he’d be on board or if he’s exactly like the rest of these girls.

Deep down, you know it’s not worth it. You knew who you were when you got up this morning, and the stable worldview you had, but you think that you must have changed several times in these past few moments. The truth is that you’re scared and you’re all on your own, and you just want to hear your brother’s voice one last time. But you know it’s not worth it.

You rub away a few stray tears with the heel of your palm and gather yourself. Because it’s worth checking, you poke your head into the bunker room and find a stray blanket on the shelf. It’s scratchy and dirty and if you had the choice you wouldn’t have anything to do with this lazy excuse for a blanket, but it’s the best you’ve got.

Then you come out the way you came and carefully close the window back shut. You round the corner to the other side of the cabin—and you notice an arrangement of sticks and logs that you’re guessing is supposed to resemble some kind of choza.

Is this where they keep the food? It can’t hurt to take a look, so you cautiously inspect it before prying the metal door open with your already-frostbitten fingers.

Whatever you thought was going to be behind that door, it wasn’t Jackie Taylor’s frozen corpse.

You clamp your hands over your mouth so as to not let out a shriek. Despite yourself, your wide, bulging eyes are trained on her and they just can’t seem to fend off. You stumble backwards, nearly knocking down the entire shack as you fall straight onto your ass.

She’s a sickly thing. Preserved in time, as though she’s been dipped in ice-cold water and left to dry in this foul meat shack like a trophy. Her eyes are a glass doll’s, her skin like wax and her eyelashes speckled with crystals. You glance down at her hands, darkened by her pooled blood, and you suddenly feel the urge to vomit.

What you don’t register is the cabin door slamming shut in the distance until a voice rings clear only a few feet away from you– “Who’s there?”

You freeze. There’s some awkward shuffling, and another “Hello?” that makes your veins run cold. A monster has come to get you, hiding behind a facade of concern before she’ll lure you in and stick a knife through your heart.

The Yellowjackets are saving Jackie’s body to eat, and if you don’t get out of here, they’re going to eat you too.

Without thinking too much about it, you grab a large chunk of what you hope is animal meat leaning against the side of the shed. You burst through the door, sprint into the forest, and you never dare look back.

It’s been roughly a month. A month, with nothing but your own thoughts and prayers to keep you company. Praying is something you’ve been doing more often. You feel like whatever has allowed you to survive for this long must be divine. You pray to the cave, you pray to the symbol, you pray to keep yourself a little less lonely. It gives you someone to talk to, even if the conversation is one-sided.

Your decision to go back to the cabin to grab a blanket and some food was a good one, all things considered, but your body wanes on sleep since you came across Jackie’s corpse. The image of her rotten, frozen body is burned behind your eyelids whenever they flutter shut.

There have been some pros. You’ve gotten so good at making fires that it only takes one try now. The piece of meat you took from the shack—you’ve made some guesses on what it could be— doesn’t taste like anything you’ve had out here, and for your own sake you’re really, really hoping it isn’t human meat. It’s lasted you a while since you decided that you’re only going to eat every two days. You also like searing it with a stick above the fire; it kind of reminds you of roasting hot dogs.

You’ve also had the stray things in your pant pockets to keep you company—like Shauna’s blank journal page, a stub of a pencil, and a nickel. You are so damn bored that this nickel has been one of your only forms of entertainment.

Not only that, but you finally have the motivation to write. You write about things that happened to you years ago, like the time you tripped in front of the entire school assembly during your choir recital and you thought it was the worst thing that could ever happen to you. You write about whether Batman or Superman would win in a fight. You write about how much you miss your dad and your mom and your brother and Owen and the kind old ladies at the grocery store who would let you go ahead of them in line.

You write about home. You write about how much you miss home especially, and the blue skies and the songbirds and the feeling you get when it’s about to rain and the cracks in the sidewalks and everything in between. Capturing every single memory like a photograph, holding it close to you and never letting go.

As for the cons? You’re pretty sure—no, you’re very sure—that you’re hallucinating.

You’ll wake up in the middle of the night because it feels like there are thousands of little insects crawling under your skin. You’ll jump up and hop around the cave, screaming and swatting at yourself—but when you look down at your arms, there’s nothing there.

You’ve also been hearing things. Like faint music, and at first you thought it was just playing in your head, but it just gets louder and louder until it drowns out your thoughts entirely.

There are persistent scratching noises, but that could very well be from rodents living down here. You haven’t encountered any, but you hope you do—food is food, after all. The thing that doesn't make you assume that it must be hallucinations is that they’re very tame, like the figures you see in a dark room before you go to bed. You heard that people who hallucinate usually hear voices, and you haven’t gotten any of those yet.

So it isn’t until you’re squatting over the fire and poking at the embers with a stick that you know without a doubt in your mind that you’re hallucinating. Because what rings in the distance are the familiar voices of Travis and Natalie.

You don’t take much notice of the sound of the crunching of snow at first. Something like this would’ve had you in flight mode weeks ago, but maybe you’re just too out of it to care. That is until deeper, more resounding footsteps come into field.

And a voice. A voice so unbearably distinct, like black cradled stars in the night. You don’t even catch what he says, but you know that it’s him.

“Hanging on a branch, a couple miles back,” comes a reply. Natalie.

Travis’ voice creaks like a floorboard as he responds, “Did you– did you look for him?”

“Everywhere! Everywhere!”

“Huh? Did you dig?”

They’re shouting at each other now in the way that your parents used to fight—growing louder and more incongruent. Knees wobbling as you stand, you stomp out your fire and shield your ears with your hands. You stagger into one of the tunnels and your breathing comes short through your gasping sobs.

The voices are muffled, but they haven’t died down yet. “Stop, stop.” You bury your crying face in your fists and repeatedly hit your head as if it’ll beat your mind right.

What did you do to ever deserve this? To be tormented by your own mind—to use everything you hold dear against you and dangle it above your head like a fresh piece of raw meat?

You spend several minutes huddling at the edge of the tunnel like a vole hiding from a hawk, shivering from your ugly, childish wails and hugging yourself because there is no one else to do it for you.

“It’s okay,” Hallucination Natalie says, and Hallucination Travis cries with you. You repeat her mantra silently to yourself, even though you know it’s not real, and that it’s working against you. It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.

———————————

It’s been two months—give or take. What does it matter anymore? The days blend together so seamlessly and you spend so much of your time underground that you can hardly tell day from night or this from that. All day and all night you can hear the small kingdoms breathing around you, the chirps of insects and the hoots of owls. They tease you. They let you know that you’re not the only one who’s hungry.

Your stomach rumbles like thunder. You should probably eat. Your gaze flicks over to the meat you keep near the firepit—there’s not much left. In fact, there’s barely enough for one meal. It’s a flimsy piece of meat that’d barely quell your hunger. You frown.

A bell goes off in your head. You could try to hunt for food. Things die in the winter because they’re bare and scant, chidden by God or Mother Nature or whoever, but spring happens for a reason and you’re certainly alive for a reason.

You decide to flip your coin. Heads, you’ll stay inside the cave and figure something out. Maybe dig for insects, or something. Tails, you’ll go outside and look for food. You’re confident that nothing will find you out there, as they haven’t yet for weeks, but that also means that you might not find anything either. You toss the coin in the air, and it lands on–

A white rabbit, pure as the rushing water under banks of snow. You must be dreaming. The more sinister thought comes to you that, no, you must be hallucinating. But you’re oh, so hungry. When it hops up the rocky tunnel and out of the cave, you jump up and scamper after it.

Midday has dissipated into a ghostly dusk, yet it’s so passive. No wind whips at your clothing nor are there tundras to squint through. Flashes of white against decaying trees; you keep pace with the rabbit as it leaps through gashes of space and time that you cannot follow, because you’re not a rabbit—you’re just human.

This rabbit must be really stupid, because it comes to a halt at one of the intersections of trees and perks its ears up, as if listening for something. You see its nose twitch, and oddly, there’s something against its white fur that glitters like gold.

That’s when you pounce. You seize its hind leg and dig your fingers into its soft, beautiful fur. When you tug at it, it kicks at you back with its free leg, square in the forehead. Your grasp still tight around its limb, you flail forward and lose your balance. Your face meets a gravelly downfall, icy slush gets into your mouth and sends a jolt of pain to your teeth.

You raise your head in defeat, your eyesight training into focus like a shitty videotape as you watch the rabbit scutter off into the distance.

No… that thing, it’s morphed into something recognizably and beautifully evil. Ladened face and wispy brown hair and tiger’s claws. You know exactly who it is.

“Shauna!” You cry out for her, but it’s lost like the echo of a seashell. “Shauna, wait!”

She can’t hear your pleas, but she never could, really. Shauna turns a sharp right, or left, maybe—and disappears into the brush.

“Shauna…” You clutch the side of your jaw and hobble through the snow. Water intrudes your sneakers and stains your pants wet. The bob in your throat makes everything you say come out as a stifled rasp, “Shauna, please…”

This way, that way, whichever way she went, you search frantically for any sign for her—but the snow is completely fresh. The only indication that anyone’s been here are your own footprints marking the earth.

“Lost something?”

You flinch and swivel around at the ghostly voice. Your gaze follows the forest’s countless secrets, the naked branches, and finally to the bough of a tree, where Lottie Matthews sits, humming dreamily to herself. She’s wearing the same dress she wore for Doomcoming and she sports this uncanny grin that stretches from ear to ear. You shudder just looking at her. “Lottie?”

She quirks her head to the side, still retaining that nasty smile. “Who’s Lottie?”

“You’re Lottie!”

“I’m not Lottie,” she says. “I’m the Cheshire Cat.”

Lottie—or, the Cheshire Cat—balances along the branch as her fingertips graze the bark. She simpers at you, and as she hums that same tune, vanishes into the wind.

You feel her presence despite—the flash of a smile, the curl of a lip. She knows that you know she’s watching you, closely, and that you’re sorely tempted by her intrigue.

She appears again, on another branch this time, capturing your attention with the kind of mystique that keeps you guessing. She’s always one step ahead of you.

Lottie’s eyes flicker with a moonish yellow as she leans against the trunk of the tree. “Oh, by the way… if you’d really like to know, she went”—she points in all kinds of directions with a myriad of striped arms—“that way.”

Gelid wind blows in your face, and you sink deeper into the snow. Why are you even here again? “Who did?” you ask.

“The White Rabbit,” Lottie says frankly.

“She did?” You peer around the trees, but it’s all the same haze to you.

“She did what?”

“Went that way.” You fold your arms over your chest and let out an exasperated huff.

“Who did?”

“The White Rabbit!”

“What rabbit?” The slits of Lottie’s pupils flash with something snake-like, and you understand that she’s toying with you as one would with a gullible mouse.

You’re starting to get tired of her and her tricks, but it’s Lottie… isn’t it? She was always a bit strange, but you remember how kind she was to you before the crash, with the limited interactions you have had with her. Passing out water bottles, and the like.

She always stood tall to you—in a way that freaked you out sometimes—but you detected a similar earnesty from her as, say, Natalie or Shauna. What you don’t understand is why she’s appearing in this form, growing new limbs and faces and voices to whisper in your ear like the ghost of the breeze. Is this the spirit of Lottie trying to mess with you?

When you look up at her again, she’s leering right back at you, as if she can read your thoughts. She stretches her arm out, unnaturally so, to pluck a pinecone from one of the branches of the tree.

“However,” she starts, “if I were looking for a white rabbit, I’d ask the Mad Hatter.”

“But I don’t want to talk to anyone who’s mad,” you remark crossly.

“Oh, but you can’t help that.” She leans over to look straight down at you. “Most everyone’s mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.”

“I’m not mad,” you retort, but you’re not even sure if you believe that.

“Maybe you are, maybe you aren’t,” Lottie says. “That’s why you came in the first place, isn’t it? If you want to stay that way, then you shouldn’t go back there.”

There being the cabin, where everyone else is? Why is Lottie of all people telling you this? You open your mouth in retaliation, to do this dance all over again, but she’s already withdrawn into the shadows. The only thing she leaves behind is her brainsick laughter and the instinctual feeling that she’s seated at the base of your spine, always watching.

Alone again, yet nothing but. Where were you supposed to go again? You feel a bit woozy… and cold. Maybe it’d be best to go back to your cave, but you can’t seem to remember which direction it was. You’ll keep going wherever the Cheshire Cat told you to go, which was– that way?

You must have only taken a few steps forward until you see her again. Shauna is pacing frantically, glancing at a golden watch she pulled from the pocket of her waistcoat. She jerks at the too-tight scarf around her neck—surely the only piece of clothing that’s keeping her warm.

You approach her as you would a startled animal. “Shauna?”

“Oh my fur and whiskers, I’m late!” She hardly acknowledges you as she hightails in the other direction, her eyes are completely trained on her watch.

“Late for what? Shauna!” You start after her, plowing through the snow like a trailblazer. Doomcoming must have taken a toll on these girls, because they’re all talking in riddles and doing some really weird things.

“I’m late, I’m late, I’m late!”

She rounds a corner and you do the same. She jumps over a root and you follow after her gracelessly. Finally, Shauna comes to a violent halt at the base of a tree. You don’t really know what kind of tree it is—you only learned about deciduous and coniferous and the rings in its trunk will tell you how old it is—but this tree is huge. Nothing like you’ve ever seen before.

The foot of it might be even bigger than the cabin. Its branches are like intricate spider webs, completely swathing over the two of you and shielding you from the sky. What’s weird is that, despite it being the height of winter, the leaves are still intact and are green as ever. In fact, when you look at the ground, it's a sweet patch of grass and flowers, as if you’ve walked straight into a pocket of summertime.

In the middle of the verdant clearing sits a rustic table. It’s enveloped by an elegant cloth, and seated at the very end of the table is– Misty? What is she doing here? She has the strangest looking hat on, it’s twice the size of her head and covered in peacock feathers. It’s not doing anything to contain her untamed curls, which poke out like stray twigs. Crystal is on her right; they’re both dressed like they’re attending some fancy event.

Shauna ignores them both entirely. She dusts off her waistcoat and glares patently at her watch; nearly passing the head of the table as she mumbles, “I’m late, I’m so, so late…”

Misty yanks Shauna’s gold chain—nearly knocking her over, and holds it up to her face as she says, “No wonder you’re late!” She brings it to her ear and shakes it like salt. “Why, this clock is exactly two days slow!”

“Two days slow?” Shauna gapes at Misty. Before she can get another word out, Misty has already detached it from its chain and wrenched the lid open.

“We’ll have to look into this,” Misty says, and she sprinkles copious amounts of sugar all over the inner-workings of the clock. “Why, I see what’s wrong with it! This watch is full of wheels.” She scours the table, as if searching for something, and finally grasps the handle of a teapot—only to pour scalding hot tea inside of the clock.

Poor Shauna is absolutely mortified to have her watch turned into Misty’s own personal teapot. You watch as she rounds the table to snatch it back, but Crystal thwarts her.

“I know what else this needs,” Misty exclaims with a snap of her fingers. “Jam!”

“Jam!” Crystal rushes to her side with a jar of the stuff. Misty takes a butter knife and spreads it all over the clock’s springs and gears as Shauna’s eyes snap wide with terror. She looks like she’s about to faint.

“Be careful with it!” she shrieks, and tries to grab for it again, but Misty turns her back on Shauna and fiddles with it some more.

“Two spoons.” She shoves two metal spoons in between the main wheel and finally clamps it shut. Then, she sets it down on the table. “That should do it!”

As soon as she says that, the watch goes haywire, jumping all over the place and sending loose gears like catapults into the air. You have to duck down to keep a spring from piercing you right in the eye. It falls to the ground, and Crystal stomps on it until it becomes nothing but a bunch of hot, sticky parts. Ew.

Shauna blanches, gaping at the pieces of broken clock as if it were a lost lover. Without a word, she pivots and stomps away into the forest.

“What’s her problem?” Misty says sardonically. She shrugs and returns to her seat; her eyes suddenly glance in your direction, and she squints at you. “And who might you be?”

You freeze like a deer in headlights. All this time you’ve been watching this encounter like a third-person observer—you forgot that they would even notice you. Or that you were even here. It’s weird, you think—Misty must know who you are by now. “It’s me, Javi,” you croak out pathetically.

Misty barely regards you, but Crystal comes up uncomfortably close and examines you as she tuts, “I don’t recall you being invited.”

“I’m sorry I interrupted your birthday party,” you start, but Misty interrupts you with a gasp.

“This is an unbirthday party!” she says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

“What’s an unbirthday?” You regret asking when Misty pipes up with that conceited expression she gets when she’s about to explain something you don’t know about.

“Statistics prove that you’ve only got one birthday,” she explains, “Ah, but there are 364 unbirthdays!”

You don’t really know what to say to that. You’re about to make your move to leave when Crystal grabs you by the arm and drags you to the seat at Misty’s left. “Come, come, have some tea!” she says; Misty nods enthusiastically and slides a small porcelain teacup in front of you.

You lift the cup to your lips. Misty snaps, "Don't drink that.” Then she softens, as if she had not just yelled at you in the first place. "It's not your time for tea yet, silly!"

Your eyebrows pinch downward. "But you just said–”

"What do you think of the tea, March Hare?"

Crystal replies, “Divine as always, Hatter!”

You’re too scared to even touch anything on the table lest Misty get angry at you again, so you keep your arms firmly glued to your side as you were taught by your teacher so you would stop stealing crayons. Stiff as a board, completely unmoving—maybe you can make your break for it when Misty and Crystal aren’t looking.

“Why don’t you tell us a story, young man?” Misty speaks through her teacup.

“I don’t know any stories,” you reply. Really you have plenty of stories, like getting in a plane crash and watching your dad die right in front of you. Misty and Crystal were there though, so there’s no point in telling them.

“Then the Dormouse shall!” they both cry. You don’t remember anyone else besides Shauna being here, especially not anyone named the ‘Dormouse’. Your eyes flit across the table, and–

On your side, only a few seats away from you, is Jackie’s corpse; she’s bent over with her head on the table like a ragdoll. She’s just like before, if not worse—her frost-tipped hair splays out over her face and her arms hang limp in front of her. This time she emits a putrid odour, like she’s been set out on the kitchen counter for hours. Your mouth parts and you stare at her with blindsiding panic, all the while Misty and Crystal attempt to rouse her.

“Wake up, Dormouse!” Misty orders. Jackie does not answer.

“Tell us a story!” Crystal says. Jackie does not answer.

“I don’t think she’s going to wake up,” you admit quietly, because the air is scent-thick with something morbid and unspoken of—something you don’t want to discover.

“It seems the Dormouse ran out of time," the Hatter says. "Never the matter! I believe it’s in your best interest to get going anyway She’s looking for you, you know.”

Something shrill travels up the back of your neck. “Who is?”

The Hatter lets out a hyena’s laugh, and you’re starting to understand where she got the name from. “Why, the Queen, of course! You’re wanted, you know.”

“Wanted for what?”

“Escaping punishment,” the Hatter replies.

That doesn’t answer your question at all. “What am I being punished for?”

“Treason.” She smiles at you wickedly, and you nearly topple over your chair as you back away from her and scurry to the other end of the table, past the March Hare and the Dormouse, and to the base of the big summer’s tree.

“But I didn’t do anything wrong!” you cry, but maybe that doesn’t make a difference. Maybe all of this is just one big punishment.

You don’t want to stay around any longer to find out what happens, to see the still body of the Dormouse or the Hatter’s face twist like a carousel. This shouldn’t be happening, you think—this is all just a nightmare you’ll wake up from in the morning. You plug your ears with your thumbs; you still hear the prating of the Hatter and the March Hare. You rub your eyes; when you open them again, you still see the vast expanse of forest ahead of you.

You try to trace your footsteps back to where you came from, but it’s just a blank canvas. This threat of something—like being haunted by a holy thing—it doesn’t let you hesitate; it keeps you fleet-footed as you jog through layers of snow and ghost along barks of trees.

Finally you stop at a large hedge gate blocking your path. Kingdoms of red roses scour every inch of brush, liminal spaces, blooming despite the odds. You listen to the snips of leaves and the hums of workers on the other side. Your fingers graze a wooden gate in front of you, and when you turn the latch, you find yourself in a beautiful garden, among the fountains and the flowerbeds.

A large tree stands near the entrance of the garden. The roses on the tree are white, but there are three gardeners busily painting all of them a striking crimson. They’re so weird looking, you think to yourself. They’re flat like cards and they chat headily amongst themselves as they splash red paint around like a bunch of kindergartners scribbling out of the lines.

You approach them timidly and ask, “Why are you painting those roses?”

Three heads snap around like owls. One of them lowers their paintbrush and they glance silently between each other, until one of them points a trembling finger in your direction and cries, “He’s here!”

Your throat turns to cotton, and you realize that you’ve run straight into a terrible trap. Horns blast in several directions and a crimson carpet rolls cartoonishly down the snow path by several odd-looking soldiers. They clamor together with one phrase repeated over and over: “The Queen! The Queen!” like those cheap plastic toys with the staticky voiceboxes.

You spot the White Rabbit scurry down the aisle, speaking in a hurried manner; she meets eyes with you and you feel like there’s a long, beautiful letter between the two of you that you can’t quite remember writing. You beckon her over and latch onto the end of her waistcoat; compassion clouds her features and she gives your hand a delicate squeeze.

“The Queen has been looking for you,” she says quietly.

“I’m scared,” you reply. There’s a question that perches on your tongue—several, actually. What did I do wrong? Is she going to kill me? What’s happening? Am I crazy? But the look the White Rabbit gives you melts your worries away, if just temporarily.

“Don’t be,” she smiles, but her eyes betray a deep-seated panic. She pulls away from you, and you yearn for her motherly contact. Get a grip, you think, get a grip. There’s no one here for you, only yourself.

“The King of Hearts is absent,” the White Rabbit explains, “and so are his disciples, Tweedledee and Tweedledum. She may go easy on you.” Then she disappears into the crowd, and the next appearance makes your blood run cold.

Most grandly of all: the Queen of Hearts. She struts down the walkway with a refinement you could never hope to replicate—with your banana-split clumsy teenage postures. Her flaxen hair is tied back by intricate pearls like the star of a morning; inaccessible to those beneath her, and she knows that. She prides in it, with her silk gown adorned by hearts and her ridiculous laced collar. Yet you notice the dark roots peeking out from under her crown, the graphite of a scar along her poised hand. Decidedly human.

Still, you know it’s best that you should take a bow. Your left knee touches the soft velvet carpet and you suppress a sigh. Maybe the Queen wouldn’t mind if you took a nap right here. She shadows you with her presence and you dare not look up at her—you only study the trim of her dress and her pointed heels from where you’re kneeling.

The Queen tosses her head and glares down at you conceitedly. “What’s your name, child?”

“Don’t you know my name?” The words vomit out of you before you can even stop yourself. You flinch, lowering your head even more, and quickly adding, “Um… Your Majesty.”

“Get up!” says the Queen shrilly, and you comply with no delay. It’s weird, up close and right in front of you, she barely gains any height on you even with those heels on. Not that it makes her any less intimidating, but you were expecting her to tower over you like Babel. She’s not an all-seeing God, she’s just… a girl.

She goes on to say, “Can you play croquet?” and when you shake her head no, she kisses her teeth. “Pity.”

It sounded like she was testing you, and that the answer you gave didn’t please her. Was the Hatter just trying to mess with you, or are you really wanted for treason?

The Queen circles you like a lion would a gazelle, and you shrink into yourself; she almost trips you over with her blanket of a gown and you feel her fingers clutch your shoulder blade to keep you in place. You’re just a pawn to her.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, an apology to her for everything you are, and everything you’re not, and everything you will never be.

“I see.” You lift your head just a moment to see the slits of her pigeoned eyes. Then, like a firecracker, or maybe the volcano from your Science Fair project, she erupts. “Off with his head!” she screeches. “Off with his head!”

You don’t know what you’re doing, really, but you run. You rip away from the Queen’s grasp and you run as fast your frenzied fox-legs can carry you, because that’s always been what you’re best at, isn’t it? You sprint into the dark recesses of the forest and you don’t look back.

The screams of the Queen die down, but the marches of the soldiers still fester. Two of them especially ring familiar, but you don’t know why. As black as a tar-barrel; which frightened the hero so. You remember the White Rabbit’s words—her ominous telling of Tweedledee and Tweedledum, and you realize that the Queen has sent them after you. Possibly even the King, at that. His title tastes sour in your mouth, and something about coming face-to-face with the King of Hearts makes your heart balloon with fear.

Despite the protests of your legs, the blood in your lungs, the constant overload—you run and run and run and run. You run even when you’re surrounded by tall green hedges: a maze of your own making. They can’t possibly have caught up to you, whoever they are—you can’t remember anymore, but you don’t stop. You can’t stop.

“Where the fuck did he come from?” You hear a voice as clear as stricken night. They’ve found you. They’ve found you; they’ll cut you up into pieces and they’ll serve you up on a silver platter.

Your heart, your mind, your arms, your hands. Your heart, your mind, your stomach. The stone in your stomach, a well that hasn’t hit the bottom yet. Everyone is waiting for you. Waiting for your blood to run cold like the river, like the sheer miracle of a dying star. Like–

Your own shattered teeth, your own broken bone when you take the fall. A glass vase, broken by your clumsy hands. Averting his gaze, saying: I’m sorry, Dad, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Please, it was an accident, I’m sorry.

Tweedledum grabs you by the arms and doesn’t let go. “We’re not trying to hurt you!” she barks.

You won’t listen to their lies. You have to fight back. With your free limbs, you kick and punch and bite like a bad dog. Snow flurries in their faces, and you use that chance to clamber out of their hold, but they yank you back by your sweater.

Tweedledee reels from your attack. She holds you down and says, “Hey, stop fighting! It’s us.”

The two of them pull you up by your armpits and flank you so you won’t escape. Tweedledum puts you in an armlock and shoots looks towards Tweedledee, who seems to understand her telepathic message.

In the face of your uncooperative behaviour, they drag you through the hedge maze and back to… the cabin. The door. The wooden door they push you through. The cabin? Why are you here? You stumble over your feet. A chorus of hoorah’s follow: the lucky reverence, the mercy of a child.

You see his basilisk sway among the sea of people. They part for him, the King of Hearts, and he gawks at you as if you’ve risen from your coffin.

“How…” He swallows his awe and reaches out towards you. “How the hell are you alive?”

The King wraps you in a hug. You’re overwhelmed by this familiar stranger’s scent, his warmth, his comfort—his variables of tenderness as he swaddles the back of your head as if you were a soft baby boy, or a package to be handled with care.

He pulls back and scrutinizes you, and his features transform into desperation as he chokes back tears. “Javi. Hey, it’s me. It’s your brother.”

He caresses your face with a devotion that fills you with envy. This tyrant with a heart of gold. Maybe he has a mother, or a father, or a little brother such as yourself that he treats with such affection, and it pains you that you are not his family. You watch him in silence as he combs through your hair; your eyes dart across his dirtied face and his chapped, trembling lips. His skin, blanched white from hunger; the only semblance of life being his deep brown eyes.

The King’s tears eventually burst from the seams and this beautiful stranger holds your heart in his hands. He cries, and cries, and all you can do is watch in filthy apathy.

You don’t really know what happened or how you got back here, but it feels like you’ve woken up from a really terrible dream. You try to backtrack to the events before you were lead to boys’ room and tucked you into bed, but it all feels like a blurry jumble of unreliable memories.

Obviously, you remember coming back to the cabin, because you’re here right now. You remember Doomcoming, and finding that cave, and everything up until you saw that stupid white rabbit—but that’s when it starts to get questionable. Maybe it was just some bad dream you had, even though you remember every ache and pain and the smell of rot and sulfur and fear. Even your worst nightmares don’t feel like this.

What scares you is the thought that something out there—these girls, or this wilderness—it’s getting to you. Like maybe everyone else is hallucinating; maybe they or the hunger or what happened that night just flicked a switch in everyone’s brains, and now all of you are going crazy.

How is it that when you entered that cabin, you couldn’t recognize these people that you’ve been around for months? How could you not recognize your own brother?

Whatever. Thinking about this makes your head hurt. You slept all day and all night, only periodically waking up to the muffled conversations in the other room—like a high-pitched frantic woman as she says, “He could have hypothermia. We should draw him a bath and keep him by the fire,” and a deeper voice retaliates, “He needs to rest for now.” Then you fall back into dreamless sleep.

It’s a dim morning when you finally get up for good. It’s painful to move anything; your eyes flutter open and closed and you feel a throbbing pain behind your lids. You swing your dull legs over the bed and press your feet against the floor—tiny needles travel up your muscles and you wince back from the bristly sensation. You shake your arms out like they’re tight coils and finally make a move to stand up.

Creeping sunrise reflects on the plane of snow as you gaze outside like it’s fresh territory. It is, you guess, because you haven’t been here in months. What a weird thing to dawn upon you.

A knock on the door makes you nearly jump out of your skin. You think, for just a moment, that you spot a man adjourned by a golden crown and silken red robes, but you blink, it’s just Travis. He pokes his head between the gap and takes on a smile that borders between authenticity and plastic happiness. “Thought I heard you in here,” he says. “How you feeling, maje?”

You scratch your cheek and glance around the room—anything but to look your brother directly in the eye. The truth is that you feel like shit, and you want to tell him that, but the words are like steel wool scraping your throat raw. You can’t even open your mouth to form the slightest of syllables. Something has shifted since that night in the woods, where everything is a whitish blur.

This kind of thing has happened before. To a lesser extent, of course; it’d only last for a few hours, and you’ve learned to quell it. You scrape your knee on a bike ride, you get spooked by a lively crowd, you fail a pop quiz—whatever it is, it severs the tie between your brain and your voice. Dad always hated when you’d go hours without speaking. He suggested a speech therapist to your mom, but she’d always say that this was normal for quiet boys like you.

This is anything but normal. You despise it. You feel like your voice has been stolen by Ursula.

Travis cringes at the silence that encompasses the both of you, but he recovers from the awkwardness and beckons you over. “You’re probably freezing,” he says, and you commend his efforts to act like everything about this is completely ordinary.

You stagger towards him and he throws his arm around your shoulder. The two of you pass through the living room and you instinctively duck behind him when everyone notices your presence. Some of them move to get up, but Travis glowers at them and they fall back into place. He guides you to a makeshift bathroom (you’re guessing by the metal tub that sits in the middle of the room and nothing else) and closes the door behind him.

Travis leaves the room and a few minutes later comes back with two buckets of boiling water. He advises you to let it sit for a bit—not long enough for it to get cool again, but not so soon that the water burns your skin off.

Staring at your reflection in the tub makes you realize a few things, like how impossibly cold you are: you’ve ignored the numbness in your fingers and the brassiness of your nose and ears for the weeks you were out there, but it’s finally caught up to you. You also just feel… nasty. You haven’t washed yourself since Doomcoming, because there was really no way to. You want to rip these dirty clothes off and pretend like you’re taking a hot shower back at home.

You spend a little under half an hour in the bathtub until Travis opens the door just a crack, to warn you that he’s coming in. You’ve just been sitting here all this time; your limbs too spindly to fit in this bird’s cage comfortably and with no soap to scrub yourself, you just feel like a sitting duck. You stop swishing the water around with your hands and look up at him when he sets down a towel and some clothes on the floor.

“These should be warmer than the ones you’ve been wearing,” he tells you, and you nod in thanks. You dry yourself off and step into the new pairs of clothes. Two zip-up sweaters—one of them you recognize as your own and the other must be someone else’s. Sweatpants, soccer shorts to go over them, fluffy socks, and a woolen scarf.

When you come back into the common room, you’re essentially subjected to an interrogation. Van shoves a deck of cards in your hands and Mari sets you down on a wooden chair in front of the fireplace. She leans forward and probes you for answers—like where you were, and something about how doing a few chores around here is the least you can do for stealing the bear meat, which they must have caught on to.

You’re just glad that it ended up being bear meat and not something else, like Jackie’s dead, frozen corpse. Which you have no reason to believe they didn’t chow down on, with how deranged these girls acted on that Doomcoming night. Even if you could speak, you’re not going to give them what they want. You stare at them with eyes of stone to get that point across.

“Hey, Trav?” Van veers her head in his direction and he sets his mug down on the table. “Yeah, maybe you could help here?”

“He’ll talk when he’s ready,” he replies staidly. Your heart swells with pride at Travis defending you like this, and you relish in the girls’ faces when they realize that he took your side, not theirs.

Mari sighs. “Fine, whatever.” She gestures vaguely at the deck of cards in your hands. “Pick at least three cards for your chores.”

Three chores is totally unfair! You scrunch your nose and narrow your eyes at her. She lifts her eyebrows and glares at you as if to say try me. You flinch and lower your head in frustration.

“Can the two of you stop having a fucking staring contest and get on with it?” Van snaps.

You waste no time in shuffling the cards and taking three from the top of the deck. Eight of Diamonds, Jack of Spades, and… Queen of Hearts, with its eyes blacked out, straight from The Prophecy. Ugh, talk about nightmare fuel. You turn your cards around to show the girls, and Akilah asks, “Hey, where’d you find that Queen card?”

Maybe it doesn’t have a chore attached to it. You’re about to celebrate your victory when Mari interrupts, “That one’s washing the pee bucket after it’s been emptied. Tough luck, Javi.”

Van and Akilah share a weird look between them, and you know right then that she just made that up!

The chair lets out a screech as you rise from it and throw the cards up in the air; they twirl in a frenzied dance of white before scattering on the floor. The girls harmonize a chorus of exclamations as you stomp into the boys’ room. Before you shut the door behind you, Mari calls out, “Don’t act like a child!”

It’s funny how the Yellowjackets only treat you as a child when it’s convenient for them. To embarrass you, to remind you what they think of you, to make you an obedient dog on a leash of chain. If this is how it’s going to be, you wish that you had never been brought back to the cabin.

You clench your hands and rub them violently against your eyes. Your elbows lock between your knees as you slowly slide down the door. You feel a wave of tears coming on—until a cough rings out from across the room.

Removing your fists from your face, you peer at Coach Scott’s body, stiff as a board, staring up at you from where he lays on the bed. Unblinking, unmoving, his mouth slightly parted like he wants to say something but physically can’t.

He looks like hell. His beard is unshaven and his eyebags are so swollen that they’re beginning to resemble bruises rather than simple marks of exhaustion. There’s a few seconds where neither of you do anything but stare vacantly at each other. Eventually you tear the veil of awkwardness (or make it worse, who knows) by crawling over to your blanket on the floor and pulling it over your head.

If this were anyone else who walked in on you having one of your moments, you’d probably be self-conscious, but you don’t think that Coach Scott is capable of independent thought. It’s like he’s suspended in some sort of cocoon. You guess it’s nice though, because no one else bothers you when you’re in the boys’ room with him, and you like your privacy.

Beneath the covers, you shuffle for a spare piece of paper and a chewed-down pencil. Most of your time spent outside has been coming to the symbol-marked trees and praying. It’s a habit you can’t break from your time in the woods, and you like to think that it’s doing some good.

You draw the roots of trees, the way they connect like tendrils and stretch along the expanse of your veins. You don’t want to forget your time out there, just in case you still need it. This time, though, you can’t think of anything to draw.

Besides, if people were to see these, they’d probably take it the wrong way. You reach out and tuck your stray drawings into your backpack. You twist and turn, the fourth sheep has jumped the gate, and Coach Scott’s wheezing eventually lulls you to sleep.

You run into Coach Scott again. This time you trace him down the hallway as he picks up one of your drawings. He hasn’t noticed you round the corner as he studies the drawings, and your skin pricks up like hedgehog’s needles.

The defense comes out before you can even register it. “She told me not to come back.”

Coach Scott stops. Turns. There’s a horror behind his eyes, like he knows something you don’t—and maybe he does.

“Who did?” he asks.

You don’t even know why you said it. Maybe a part of you was begging to get something out to someone who you thought wouldn't use it against you. Coach makes you feel a bit more at ease than the others. Like you’d tell anything to Van, or Mari, or even Travis. Yeah, and get your head on a stake. As if.

Still, you don’t know what really happened out there, whether that was Lottie or the Cheshire Cat or some figment of your own imagination. Any of these answers could get you or Lottie in trouble, so you settle on: “My friend.”

He opens his mouth like he wants to ask you more. You snatch the paper from his hand and scatter the other way. His voice rings true from the other end of the hallway, reverberating through the walls as he calls after you.

(You avoid the gazes of the others in the common room. Who’s your friend, Javi? Who’s your friend? The clap of the wooden door deafens your racing mind.)

On top of so many things just happening as soon as you get back, you feel eyes on you at all times. Earlier that week Travis gave you this weird-tasting soup and tried to get answers out of you. The thing is, you wanted to tell him. You really did. You just couldn’t. The words would snuff like candlelight on your tongue, and the disappointment that oozed from him was even worse.

Him and Nat, they don’t even hide it. They talk about how fucked up you are. You don’t know exactly what Travis means when he yells at her about some bloody clothes, but you do know that he never gave up on you.

If only. If only you had woken him up that night. You don’t know why you doubted your brother—why you thought that he was just like these other girls. All you did was fail him.

Crystal, you think, goes missing. Shauna gives birth during a snowstorm. Even the unrelenting tundra wasn’t enough to drown out her screams and cries from the other room. You could barely stand it, and the wall of silence afterwards—the pleading for her baby boy, choking and sweat and sobbing and all. You almost got up to go and see her several times, but you knew that it would just make things worse.

The next night, everything shatters. A scream, a thump. Lottie tells Travis to take you to the other room. You don’t want to go; you want to kick and scream and bite like Shauna taught you, but instead you trail behind him loyally.

He shuts the door. You hear the wet thud of gorey flesh. For just a second, your mind travels to someone else—someone you thought you had gotten over long ago. But it wasn’t that long ago, was it? You glance over at Travis’ grief-stricken face, and you can tell he’s thinking the same thing.

Travis gets over himself and ushers you over to the bed. He lays you down, runs his fingers through your black hair and murmurs soothing words. He even tells you a story. (The crack of bones under a heavy hand.) Something about princes or dragons. (Bruised skin and knotted muscle twitching in fear.) You can’t remember now.

Silence follows. Travis takes a shuddering breath. He moves to get up, but you clutch his arm just a bit tighter.

The quiet doesn’t last long. You listen as everyone clamors to Lottie’s aid, and amidst it all, Shauna’s voice—so weak and fragile, like the little girl she deserved to be. “Lottie?”

Shauna is like you. She loves so deeply that it kills her. It kills others. You’re an outcast from earth and her from heaven. You wish you could tell her how grateful you are to her, to take just a fraction of her pain and carry it with you. But you’re afraid things will end up the same way.

You duck your head between the crook of Travis’ neck. It’s just a hoarse whisper, a toss into the wishing well, when you ask: “Is she okay?”

It’s hard to miss how his breath hitches. He stays above it all, like the good big brother he is, and smiles weakly against your hairline. “It’s okay, Javi. Lottie’ll be okay.”

And of course you care for Lottie’s well-being, you hope she’s okay—but Travis misunderstood you. Really, you were asking for Shauna.

When the weather clears up, many of you go out and search for Crystal. Maybe it’s out of genuine concern or fleeting boredom, but you decide to help as well. Dad always said that it’s nice to get out of the house. You’re hoping this cold goes away soon, so when spring comes you and Travis can play outside like old times.

You’re putting your hat over your head when someone from behind snatches it from you. “Man,” Natalie’s familiar voice halos, and you can’t help but smile. “I think you’re due for a haircut.”

“Don’t even think about butchering my brother’s hair,” Travis calls out from the other side of the room, and Natalie makes a face at him.

She turns back to you and asks, “You trust me, don’t you?”

Despite everything, that’s not even a question. You nod. She brushes your shoulders and tells you to sit on one of the wooden chairs in the middle of the room. Natalie takes the sharp end of a knife and trims your hair down just above your neck; thick strands fall down your neck and you recoil.

Natalie doesn’t make much of an effort to clean up the mess on the floor. She just brushes some tufts of hair away with her shoe and combs the shagginess out of your eyes. Then she hands you the knife, glistening in the sunlight, and lets you look at your reflection.

It isn’t perfect, but you weren’t asking for a clean-cut fringe. What you didn’t expect is for your hair to grow so long after just a few months. Out of the corner of your eye, Natalie boasts an expectant smile on her face as she waits for your approval. You give her a thumbs up in return.

Travis and Natalie stay behind and watch you go; you wave at them shyly as you tuck your sweatpants into your high socks and head out the door.

The others aren’t really as into this search as you are. Probably because you’re the only one who understands what it’s like to be out there for so long, thinking you’ve been forgotten like a city falling into the sea. They must all believe that Crystal is as good as dead, and you want to prove them wrong.

Yet it’s nearly sundown, and there’s no sign of her. You can’t imagine how she could have survived through that snowstorm—but you guess you weren’t supposed to survive, either.

You blow on your frost-tender fingers and shove them into your pocket. This was a stupid idea. Everyone’s avoiding you like the plague, and you wanted to talk with Shauna, but you know that wouldn’t have gone well. She’s in an awful place right now, and you hate to say it, but you don’t want to end up like Lottie by doing the wrong thing.

Your body trembles from the cold. The cabin is winding down—the others finally don’t snap their heads in your direction whenever you enter a room. Natalie beckons you over.

“I made you something,” she says jovially. The two of you sit by the windowsill; where outside the gray grows faint pink, and you think of fresh laundry and a mother’s love.

“They're not that pretty, and they don’t change colour in the cold or anything... but they might help.” Natalie shows you a pair of woolen mittens—you’re guessing they’re made from spare socks or something—and you slip them on.

“There you go.” She smiles softly. You can’t help but notice the glimmer in her hazel eyes that seem to have been blotted from everyone else’s. It’s like hope.

Turning your hands over, you wiggle your fingers to get a good feel for your new mitts. You half-smile back, and take your leave.

Tonight there is a warmth that expands in your chest like a balloon. This night is like the mouth of an angel in exile. You can either hold everything in your protected hands, or nothing at all. As you tumble into peaceful sleep, you will not have a mind’s eye of what comes next.

You don’t understand how it came down to this.

Travis explained it to you, yes. Lottie needs to stay alive. We’re all starving. A sacrifice must be made. But you just don’t get it. Where the hell is Coach Scott? Shouldn’t he be putting a stop to this?

Locking eyes from across the altar, the candle blazes Hail Mary’s between you, casting unearthly shadows throughout the cabin. If it’s Travis, or Shauna, or Natalie who pulls the Queen card… you don’t know what you’ll do.

It gets to Travis. (Decaying dreams bleed into spirits of the past, present and future.) He shows off his Ace of Clubs. (A throbbing heart for eyes and an unconscious ache for flesh.) You let out the breath you’ve been holding in.

Some things are just meant to happen, like space and time and sound and tectonic plates crashing together or maybe an airplane plummeting into a forgotten land. Misty approaches you. Can she feel how you tremble? You pick the underside of the top card; your fingers feel like they’re about to fall off. This can’t be happening. You flip your card over and, and–

King of Spades. You’ve never felt more relieved in your life. You turn your card over to show everyone else, but you only have eyes for one person. Making a beeline for Travis, he catches you in his arms and cradles the back of your head like you’re a glass vase. “It’s okay,” he whispers, “It’s okay. We’re okay.”

Natalie’s next, and Travis’ hold on you tightens as he follows her with unwavering concentration. It’s been silent, too silent, for a while. When you look up from the safe place of your brother’s shoulder, the only word to describe Natalie’s face is mortified. You’ve never seen her like this—damp eyes snapped wide in blind panic, a quivering front lip. Before she even reveals her Queen card, you know.

“Turn around,” Shauna says, less like an order and more like a plea. She holds her knife—the same knife you used to carve that figurine for her—at Natalie’s jugular. They stay suspended like that for several agonizing moments. Poor, sweet, sensitive Shauna just can’t make the mark.

Then Natalie pivots. Grabs Shauna’s hand with her own, and rasps, “You’re gonna have to look me in the eye.”

And God, you just wish you could do something. You don’t want to watch this, to see Travis’ face when he loses the shepherd to his farmer. If only you hadn’t found that stupid Queen card. If only the universe had been kinder to Shauna. If only you’d held your mother for just a few moments longer.

Something wild flickers in Travis’s eyes; only you can see it—like a wick to gasoline. He full-body tackles Shauna and releases Natalie from her clutch. Everyone startles; the other girls reach for him and hold him back; they claw at his chest and reach for his throat. Through choked gasps, he gets out a simple instruction to Natalie: run.

She takes off, and the others follow with the same rabid howls as the night of Doomcoming. Travis is still held at knifepoint, desperately pinned to the wall—he searches desperately for you and mouths your name.

You know what he wants from you, and you’ll do it in a heartbeat. The rest of these girls have always been like this. There’s no saving them. But you can save Natalie. You start on your feet and race after her.

Outside, the air is still. The sun brightens tardily and the light makes the melting snow glitter. Not even the wind carries a sound; all you can hear is the howls of the girls in the distance. They’re getting closer, you can tell.

The shape of a body flashes between the trees. “Natalie, stop!” You dodge a juncture of wood and frantically call out for her. She keeps her pace as if you aren’t even there.

In between ragged breaths, you pant, “I know where to go.”

Snow kicks up from her boots as Natalie stops to face you. She blanches, fear-stricken and uneasy. “What are you talking about?”

You must sound crazy, but you have to convince her to come with you. It’s the only way both of you will get out of this alive. You remember those tunnels like the back of your hand. From this clearing, the closest one must be on the other side of the lake.

“There’s a place the others don’t know about it,” you explain briskly. “I– I can take you there.”

Natalie is locked in fight-or-flight mode. Your gaze softens, and you take a careful step forward. “You can trust me.”

Seconds pass, and she still looks like she’s ready to pounce, but both of you know that you’re running out of time. “Okay,” she exhales, and you start the other way.

You point out towards the horizon, where the lake you once knew has been enveloped in a thick layer of sleet and ice. The snow is so deep that you have to take heavy strides just to plow through it. Your heart is hammering in your chest. You don’t have time for this.

You’re nearly at the halfway point. Natalie trips and falls. You grab her by the shoulders and help her up. “We’re almost there,” you assure her. “Come on.”

Something trills behind you, emerging from the fog. Nauseatingly alive, animal, like a pack to the kill. They’re coming.

“Come on!” Fresh terror rears up within you. You’re several metres ahead of Natalie now. You can’t just leave her behind. You have to go back, you have to–

A deafening crack resounds beneath you. Your eyes flit down to your feet. Your jaw is slack with the middle of a scream; all of the dread caught is in your throat. Your thoughts run a mile a minute. The ice is breaking; the ice is breaking.

Freezing water shocks your system as you plunge below the surface, and all you can feel is an agonizing burn. Someone is squeezing your lungs with their bare hands. They’re dragging you downwards, slithering inside your veins and scorching your skin.

You try to break the surface—you thrash and kick and flail around, grasping for something, anything to give you some clarity, but it’s a losing battle.

The sky is overcast by the clouds, and eventually, your guardian angel. Natalie reaches for your hand and pulls you up enough to breach the waves. “Natalie, please–” You waste your precious breath on a wail. You’re shaking so badly and you can barely get half a lungful before you’re under again.

A ringing fills your eardrums; you feel like they’re about to burst. You try to reach for Natalie with your free hand, but she retracts it. What’s happening?

The current pulls you deeper. God, you feel light now. It’s not so cold anymore.

Where did Natalie go? Why isn’t she helping you? Why isn’t anyone helping you? Where is Shauna? Or Travis? You understand now that you were foolish to trust them.

“Natalie!” Bubbles spew from your mouth and you choke on an airless gasp. You know it’s futile.

You force your body to heave itself up. Your contracted muscles try to clobber for traction, but it seems to send you deeper down than before. You are trapped here. There’s no one coming to save you.

God, Dad, Mama, Travis… Please, stay with me. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die.

Shauna, Natalie, someone… please.

It’s getting harder to fight. Your arms and legs go limp. It’s over. You can rest now. But you won’t die peacefully.

Darkness shrouds your vision, your dreams—in which you are a study sycamore tree. You shed the torments of your youth. You grow wild fantasies along your tongue, and you survive for centuries. Another brings you back to when life was simpler. Mom washes your back with hot water. You pull on fresh clothes. Hazy-gold rays seeps through tattered curtains, and you know that you’re home.

The sunlight is so beautiful. It’s so beautiful from down here.