Chapter Five

“Maybe we’ve been abducted by aliens and this is another planet!”

“What if we’re all dead?”

“This is clearly the work of an evil government. They stranded us in the middle of nowhere so they could experiment on us.”

Wild theories spin around me, and I press my hands over my ears before the voices of the other castaways suck me into their whirling vortex. I have to find an oasis in this chaos. I have to think.

There are twelve of us—the eleven passengers in our lifeboat, plus Bodin.

The other six had woken up a quarter mile away, and we ran into them when we wandered up the beach.

Twelve castaways, old and young, a mix of ages and personalities, with a heavy concentration of young adults. There’s fourteen-year-old Kit—just a child, really, even though he already towers over all of us at six foot three—and his grandma, Khun Anita, an elegant South Asian woman wearing a bright yellow sari. She introduces herself as simply “Anita,” of course—but we’re in Thailand. I can’t possibly address an elder without a term of respect.

Brothers Mateo (about my age and height and very cute, in a nerdy kind of way, with playful brown eyes and wire-rimmed glasses) and Eduardo (a few years older and built like a former football player who let his muscles melt into fat).

Finally, a dating couple, college students Elizabeth and Sylvie, who are celebrating their two-year anniversary. Elizabeth is short, curvy, and blond, while Sylvie is tall, striking, and Filipina.

Twelve. That’s all I can think. One more than my magic number.

That’s the number of fish that Captain Xander was prepping. The amount of hooks that he pierced through their eyes. And—what did he say? The number of blind princesses reincarnated as the fish.

Princesses, we are not. A more accurate description would be a diverse group of bedraggled castaways desperate to survive.

But twelve. It can’t be a coincidence—can it? I don’t know. Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe there’s nothing significant about this number. Maybe that’s just my OCD, reading patterns into something that’s not there.

It’s a whole lot trickier to trust my gut when my gut is so populated with thoughts masquerading as truth. Nonetheless, twelve just doesn’t feel right. There’s one too many.

“The correct explanation is usually the most obvious one,” Bodin says, his voice firm. He’s not the oldest one of us. Not the smartest nor the strongest. Still, he knows these waters better than anyone else, so he’s stepped into the role of de facto leader. “We probably passed out from smoke inhalation, and Captain Xander took the lifeboat to get help. See, he’s left these coolers for us.” Bodin gestures to a pair of large red coolers filled with water bottles, towels, and other gear. We found them near where the other six woke up. Between the coolers and our own individual bags, which about half of us brought to the lifeboat, we aren’t entirely without resources. “This means he’ll be back to rescue us at any moment.”

Bodin could be right. Damn it, I want with every cell of my being for him to be right. But my lungs still hurt, even though they’ve been sucking down air for a good hour.

It can’t be that easy. This island is no paradise. Something is desperately, painfully off here.

Rae slaps her hands onto her hips. “So, what are we supposed to do in the meantime? Work on our suntans?” Sarcasm drips from her voice, probably because she’s never “worked” on her creamy brown skin a day in her life.

“No,” Bodin says grimly. “We survive.”

…

A few minutes later, Bodin produces a fluffy beach towel from one of the coolers and spreads it out on the sand, on a shady part of the beach. The palm trees grow in clusters here, giving us a much-needed reprieve from the sun.

“Everyone, please place your food supplies here,” he says. “We should take inventory.”

The towel looks clean. The purple- and green-colored stripes are bright and vivid, the white background unnaturally pure. White never stays this white unless it’s been freshly laundered.

And yet, I hesitate. I’ve got Thai beef jerky and sticky rice—our family’s typical travel snack—in my duffel bag. Mama always prepares this duo for me because she knows how picky I can be. In particular, I prefer my food to be: a) not dirty and b) not touching anything dirty.

The jerky and rice are currently encased in a plastic bag and a small bamboo basket, respectively. But if they touch the towel, will they continue to be safe—or at least, my version of safe, which is hard to define but something I know implicitly at the core of my being? I truly don’t know.

Mama nudges me as she adds her provisions of two curry puffs—pastry filled with curried potatoes—to the towel.

Be flexible, her eyebrows tell me. It’s a lesson I need to learn, for the future as well as for this deserted island.

Too bad flexibility is the exact opposite of the rigidity that is my OCD. Still, my food is protected by plastic and bamboo. It makes no difference if these containers also touch a towel. Right? Right?!

Gritting my teeth, I slowly deposit my jerky and rice on the towel before I change my mind.

One by one, the other castaways relinquish their food items. The pile grows with granola bars, nam wah bananas, a squashed-up blueberry muffin, and a box of gluten-free crackers. Each item is an adequate snack for the person who brought it. But as a whole, this pile won’t go far in feeding twelve shipwrecked people who need to survive an unknown amount of days.

“Hey.” Lola nudges Preston lightly on the shoulder. “Weren’t you telling us you had a whole green curry pizza?”

“Oh, um.” He clutches his sleek, black-leather backpack closer to his body. “I ate it.”

Rae narrows her eyes. “You’ve been with us since we woke up in the sand, and you were bragging about it. I haven’t seen you eat anything.”

“Pretty sure you just offered me a slice a few minutes ago,” Elizabeth says evenly. “Just as you were ogling my breasts.”

Several people dart glances at her ample chest, displayed by a low-cut T-shirt, even as Eduardo turns his broad back to the group, his spine stiff and unyielding. His brother, Mateo, shoots him a concerned look.

What’s up with Eduardo? He’s older than most of us—I’d guess twenty-two or twenty-three. Is he just annoyed with this teenage banter?

Before I can decide, Mateo grabs Preston’s backpack and unzips it, pulling out a flat pizza box.

Khun Anita gasps and then gives her grandson a stern look, as though warning him never to be so selfish as to hide food.

In response, Kit pantomimes shooting a basketball into the sky, flicking his right hand at the wrist, likely bored with our conversation.

“That’s mine!” Preston grabs wildly for the pizza box. “I paid a lot of money for this gourmet pizza, and I don’t have to share.”

He flips open the lid, picks up a slice, and then licks it. As we all watch in open-mouthed horror, he proceeds to do the same with the rest of the slices, his tongue long, pink, and thorough.

Mama slaps a hand over her mouth, probably nauseated from her medication, and the rest of the castaways explode.

“Ew! That’s disgusting!” Lola shrieks.

“You should be ashamed of yourself, young man,” Khun Anita scolds. “We are stranded on this island together. Now is not the time to think about yourself.”

“The pizza will be rationed, just like everything else.” Taking control of the situation, Bodin strides over, sweeps up the pizza box, and adds it to the pile on the towel. “A little saliva won’t stop me from eating my share.”

“Me, either,” Mateo agrees, adjusting his glasses.

“And me.” Sylvie stretches her long arms overhead.

“Same.” Rae nods defiantly.

Well, no thank you. I don’t care if I’m starving. I will not put that germ-infested, saliva-soaked pizza in my mouth. I take an involuntary step back, away from the group. Interestingly, Eduardo, who has turned back to face the group, does the same.

“Speaking of rations…” Sylvie says as she transitions from stretching to jogging in place. “Some of us have higher caloric needs than others. We should get more food.”

Mama, mostly recovered but still looking wan, places a gentle hand on Sylvie’s shoulder. “Should you be using up your energy stores, dear? We don’t know how long we’ll be out here.”

Sylvie stares at her. “I have a big climbing competition in two weeks. I have to stay in shape.”

“If we’re out of here in two weeks,” Bodin mutters from my right, so softly that I doubt anyone else has heard.

I turn to him. “What was that?” I ask in a low voice. “I thought you said the captain would be back any minute.”

“I don’t know when—or if—the captain will return,” he admits.

I shiver, partly from the breeze that sweeps over the island but mostly from this cold truth. Deliberately, I step out of the shade of the palm tree and back into the sunshine. We can pretend all we want, but none of us—not even Mama, not even Khun Anita, both well-versed in adulting—have the first clue what’s happening. We’re all just guessing.

The other castaways are still arguing.

“I’m the biggest one here,” Eduardo says, his first words to the group. “I should get the most rations.”

Kit leaps forward, spins around, and shoots an invisible ball. “I’m the tallest.” I guess he was paying attention after all.

“And I’m the best-looking.,” Mateo smirks, to let us know that he’s just joking. “What difference does it make? We should all get the same amount.”

“I’m gluten-free and vegan,” Rae protests. “Which means I can’t eat most of the food. I should get a bigger serving of my crackers.”

“You could eat gluten and meat,” Lola says. “You just choose not to.”

“Enough,” Bodin says. He strides to the center of our group, looking at each of us in turn. “We can’t waste our time and energy arguing. It’s got to be midafternoon by now, and we still have to build a rudimentary shelter by nightfall. For now, let’s just pack the food away in the coolers and agree to divide it equally. Okay?”

We all nod—not because we’re a particularly agreeable group but because we’re all achy and tired and just grateful for someone else to take control.

Except, of course, for Preston. “Who died and put you in charge?” He scowls. “One of the old people should be our leader.”

“Hey!” I interject. “My mama’s not old. She’s just sick.” And you know, dying, I think but don’t say.

“My grandmother, on the other hand? Old as dirt,” Kit jokes, and Khun Anita slaps him playfully on the shoulder.

“Ow!” he screeches. “It’s not my fault you two are oldies.”

“It’s lovely of you to defend my honor, dear,” Mama says to me. “But it’s really not necessary. I don’t know the first thing about surviving on a deserted island.”

“Me, neither,” Khun Anita agrees. “In fact, I’d be grateful if it wasn’t my responsibility.”

“What does the oh-so-mighty Bodin know?” Preston mutters, not letting his objection go.

Our former boatswain shrugs. “Not claiming to be an expert here, but our tour company leads camping expeditions on islands similar to these. So I’m not completely unfamiliar with surviving in the wild.”

“Bodin it is, then,” Sylvie declares. “Anyone who disagrees can take it up with me.” She raises her brows at Preston, the six-inch difference in their height more than apparent, and he backs down.

One crisis, at least, averted. A million more to get through.