Squeak. Squeak. SQUEAK.
A series of noises erupts from Preston, differing in volume and intensity but nonetheless sounding remarkably similar. He presses his hands over his mouth, then lets go, as though the pressure might somehow turn his mouth back to normal.
Sadly, it doesn’t.
I bring my hand to my own mouth in sympathy as we all stare, fascinated.
“Even I know this one,” I say, looking at Mama. “Remember? You used to tell this tale to me when I was a kid.”
But the lore is nothing like seeing the images come to life before me.
“Morality tales to make young children behave,” Mama explains to the others. “If you slapped people around on Earth, you might be reincarnated with hands the size of pancakes. And if you spoke disrespectfully to your parents, you would be reshaped with a pinhole mouth.”
“Will it…go away?” Khun Anita’s hands flutter up and down. “How will he eat?” She darts a glance at her own grandson, as though to check that his mouth has not reformed. But Kit continues pacing around, all six feet of him in motion, as usual.
“I don’t know,” Mama admits. “In the stories, the transformations are permanent, but this is different. This is real life.”
“He can suck up food through a straw,” Sylvie suggests. “We can fashion one out of bamboo leaves.”
Eduardo wrinkles his forehead. “If our next rations include any liquid food items. Whatcha think, buddy?” He nudges Preston’s foot gingerly. “Want to slurp up vindaloo through a straw?”
Preston lets loose a string of indignant squeaks. Have to give it to the guy, he’s communicating quite well, using only a single sound.
“Maybe they’ll bring us nutritious smoothies next time,” Sylvie says soothingly.
Preston’s squeaks grow louder and more incensed. Guess he’s not a fan of smoothies, either.
Khun Anita straightens her yellow sari and pats the black bun of her hair (surprisingly neat, given our island living). After only a day in her presence, I recognize the gesture: she grooms herself when she’s about to take charge.
Sure enough, she holds out her hand to Preston, as though he were a child. “Come along. Let’s find you a place to relax. If you let the anger flow out of you, you may get your mouth back yet.”
Who knows if she’s right, but it’s as good a theory as any. Preston must think so, too, because he takes Khun Anita’s hand and plods away dutifully, leaving the rest of us staring after him.
…
By nightfall, Preston’s mouth has returned to normal. He sits at the edge of our camp, quiet, withdrawn. Completely out of character, but I guess he’s afraid to say anything lest his mouth shrinks once more.
The story spreads rapidly among the castaways, and for the most part, we leave him alone, with the more maternal types—Mama, Khun Anita, Elizabeth—swooping down to check on him once in a while. Bodin, on the other hand, steers completely clear of Preston’s path.
In the past thirty-six hours, we’ve made major progress in establishing a livable space. We have two shelters now: the original one, with the palm-frond thatched roof and bamboo floor, and a smaller lean-to, consisting of a frame covered with large fronds. A fire blazes between the two shelters, surrounded by a ring of smooth rocks. It’s not exactly professional, but it’s not half bad.
Mother Nature herself reigns supreme, injecting beauty into our primitive surroundings. It’s a cloudless night—no rain, thank goodness. The long, orange flames of our fire reach into the deep navy sky pierced with stars. With no ambient light, the stars glow like the purest, most brilliant diamonds. They command attention like actors on a stage, with the sky relegated to nothing more than a backdrop.
Why does such exquisite beauty cause a lump to grow in my throat? The sight makes me feel so small, so humble. It makes me think of Papa.
I hug myself. No one’s coming for us, now that Xander’s revealed our shipwreck to be nothing but a sham. Papa’s lost, maybe forever, and Mama has only two days’ worth of pills remaining.
“Alaia, check it out.” Lola comes up next to me, gesturing down the beach. Three figures approach our camp, carrying dark bundles in their arms, their silver uniforms reflecting in the moonlight.
“Looks like Xander’s been watching too much Squid Game,” she comments.
When Xander’s employees come closer, I scrutinize their outfits more carefully. Sure enough, I see the resemblance to the guards on the popular show. Xander’s employees wear long-sleeved silver jumpsuits, rather than red, but their black shoes and gloves hide every square inch of skin. Their masks stretch over their heads like a hood, but while the white cloth is fitted along the skull, it is loose and long in front of the face, protruding outward.
“Are they wearing oxygen masks?” I ask Lola, trying to make sense of the bizarre shape.
“That, or they’re hiding some facial disfigurement.”
I frown. “All of them?”
Lola shrugs. “The ones this afternoon were also wearing the same mask.”
The sight of the strangers draws the rest of the castaways forward. We all watch in silence as they dump their lumpy packages a safe ten feet from the firepit—presumably our reward from Lola’s ability surfacing, as Xander promised—and then, the three of them depart without saying a word.
Sylvie and Kit exchange a look, and then they take off after the guards. This time, however, the guards have less of a head start, so they start running, too. Or rather, they leap into the bushes…and disappear once more.
“What. The. Hell?” Sylvie halts in her tracks. “Everyone, fan out. Search the area. They have to be here, somewhere.”
Um. The last thing I want to do is to wander into the dark, creepy woods, with no light and no weapon, where who knows what might be lurking. Although—let’s be honest, if I had a weapon, I wouldn’t have the first idea how to use it.
“Partner up!” Bodin announces. “Pah Moh and Khun Anita will stay here and tend the fire.”
I shoot him an appreciative glance. He’s always looking out for Mama, even in the midst of chaos, and for that, I’m grateful.
He must misinterpret my look as an invitation, however, because he comes immediately to my side.
“Wanna be my buddy?” he asks.
All I can do is nod.
We begin to comb the woods to the left of where we lost sight of the guards, since Sylvie and Kit have that area covered. Bodin searches five feet to the right of me, close enough to hear me yell but not so close that we’re duplicating our efforts.
I squint into the dark, trying my hardest not to freak out. A few yards into the woods, the night envelops us completely as we leave the warm, safe glow of the fire behind.
There are black shapes everywhere. Branches, tree trunks, and shrubbery, I tell myself. Nature’s clothes. Nothing scary. And yet, my imagination shapes them into sharpened claws about to unfurl, vicious teeth snapping at the air, glow-in-the-dark eyes watching, watching…
Wait a minute. That’s not my imagination. It’s an actual swath of silver fabric.
“Bodin. I found something,” I hiss.
He hurries to my side. My shoulder, ever so slightly, brushes against his chest. But this time, it’s okay. Both of our bodies are encased in clothing, so it’s just fabric pressing up against fabric. No skin-to-skin contact. In this context, under these circumstances, his touch doesn’t repulse me. In fact, it comforts me. His solid presence is a reassurance, coaxing my nerves to stay inside my skin.
“It’s one of the guard uniforms,” he says, holding up the jumpsuit so that it catches a sliver of moonlight. “See the elongated mask by the hood?”
I blink. “Are you saying one of the guards is naked out here? How does that help them disappear?”
He shakes his head slowly. He doesn’t have any more answers than I do.
And then, I see it. Scaly, reptilian skin. Enormous swishing tail. A definite pair of eyeballs on its flat head.
I scream, jumping into Bodin’s arms. That thing—whatever it is—retreats into the bush and wriggles away. Still, I continue jamming my face into Bodin’s chest, plastering my body against his ribs, his hip, as though I can somehow crawl inside his skin, where I’ll be safe.
“Shhhh,” he says into my hair, his arms cradling me. “It’s gone now. It can’t hurt you.”
I cling to his words. It can’t hurt me, it can’t hurt me, it can’t hurt me…
Although his touch can.
Regaining my wits, I wrench myself out of his embrace. What am I doing? Why am I breaking my internal rules, the ones that have protected me and allowed me to survive all of these years?
“I’m so sorry—” I gasp.
“Hey. You once told me I had nothing to be sorry for,” he says, his steady eyes holding my gaze. “The same holds true now.”
I nod, even as my cheeks flush. I threw myself at him. I couldn’t have gotten any closer if I’d tried.
We search some more, although this time, I can’t bring myself to stand five feet away. However, I’m careful not to touch him again.
We don’t find anything else, nor do we encounter any more monsters who might eat us alive, and half an hour later, we’ve regrouped with the others back at our camp, all of us standing around the fire.
Lola and Mateo found a second silver jumpsuit, but no one else had a close call with a living creature.
Kit suddenly steps to the side and picks up a bundle. In all of the excitement, I had completely forgotten about the packages that Xander’s employees dropped off for us. “Sleeping bags!” he whoops. “Water-purification tablets. Toothpaste. Now, that’s a reward.”
Enthusiastic chatter breaks out as others move forward to claim a sleeping bag. Even Mama smiles—twenty-six. The flames highlight the wrinkles in her paper-thin skin, and she looks like she would benefit from sleeping for a week straight.
“These old bones aren’t getting any younger,” Khun Anita says, stretching. “This is my cue to turn in.”
She waddles forward and picks up the navy nylon material—
“Wait!” Rae shrieks. “We have a problem.”
“What is it?” Bodin asks. He hangs back with me, Mama, and a few others.
“Our kind and benevolent captor bequeathed us with only ten sleeping bags,” Rae says sourly.
Lola blinks, not understanding. “But there’s twelve of us.”
“There’s no way it was a mistake.” I look first at Mama, then at Bodin, for confirmation. “He knows each of our favorite foods. He wouldn’t have accidentally sent the wrong number of sleeping bags.”
“Precisely,” Rae says, but her eyes hold no bitterness. Only defeat.
“He did this on purpose.” The realization hits me, and my knees go weak. “This is his way of creating conflict. He wants us to fight over the sleeping bags, so that another one of us will manifest our ability.”
“Well, screw him,” Rae says. “I’m not one to be patient. You can ask my sister”—Lola nods extra vigorously, at which Rae rolls her eyes—“but I’m about to keep this anger buttoned up. I refuse to give him the satisfaction. So, I don’t want anyone bickering over the sleeping bags, you hear?”
Bodin steps forward, into the ring of firelight. The bruises on his face are turning purple, both of his eyes rimmed with black. “Look, we’re all mature enough not to devolve into brawling,” he says unironically, even though his bruises must still hurt. I can’t even look at him without wincing.
“But have you thought about just playing Xander’s game?” Bodin continues. “Three of our abilities have surfaced. Maybe the rest of us should focus on pushing ourselves emotionally so that we can bring our abilities forward, and then we can get outta here.”
“Um, sorry, dude.” Rae crosses her arms, not sorry at all. “I think you mean well, but I, for one, don’t understand your relationship with our captor—”
“We don’t have a relationship,” Bodin interjects. “He betrayed and tricked me, just like the rest of you.”
His words hang in the air, igniting a current of suspicion. Even though it feels like a million years have passed since I first set foot on the yacht yesterday morning, we haven’t known each other for a full two days. Trust has yet to be established.
“No offense,” Elizabeth says, “but are we supposed to just believe you?” She might be soft-spoken and kind, but strength underlines her voice just the same.
“How are we supposed to believe anybody?” Bodin rakes a hand through his overlong hair. “All of us here could have some kind of connection with him. I mean, Lola’s into fashion, right? Maybe she’s working as Xander’s stylist.”
Lola’s mouth drops comically. “You think I came up with those hideous silver jumpsuits? And Xander’s wrinkled, hasn’t-showered-for-a-week attire?” She shudders. “Please tell me you have more respect for me than that.”
“That’s my point,” Bodin says. “It’s preposterous.”
“It’s not Bodin’s fault he worked for the worst employer on the planet,” Mama says. “He’s been nothing but helpful since we woke up on this island.”
Rae waves away her words. “Look. It really doesn’t matter. There’s still oh, about a zero chance in hell that I’m going to let myself be manipulated by our so-called captain. And that means I’m not playing his game.”
“Even if that’s our only way out?” Bodin protests. “Xander promised—if all twelve of us manifest our abilities, he’ll let us go.”
“Where have you been? Hiding under a rock? Have you watched a single movie in the last two decades?” Preston bursts out and then slaps a hand over his mouth, his eyes bulging. He lowers his hand cautiously. “How’s my mouth? Am I actually saying these words, or are they in my head?”
“You’re good, man.” Eduardo pats his shoulder.
Mateo speaks up. “Preston’s right. We have no guarantee that the captain will do what he says.”
“He’ll never let us go,” Elizabeth chimes in as she clutches Sylvie’s hand. “It’s too dangerous for him. Any one of us could go to the authorities. He could be hunted down. Sure, it’s a fantastical story, and maybe no one would believe us. But what if someone did? It’s much safer for him to lock us away in a dungeon for the rest of our lives, or even worse—”
“Kill us,” Sylvie finishes grimly.
“No, thank you.” Rae shakes her head. “I’m not about to give up the only leverage I have. I say we get some rest, and we figure out a way off this island in the morning.” She sighs. “If only one of you had developed an ability that could actually help us, like flying. These passive talents are next to useless.” She stops, her mouth still open as though she’s realized what she’s just said.
“No offense,” she offers weakly, but the damage has already been done.
“Well, I guess if I’m so useless, then I might as well go to sleep,” Lola says, snatching up a sleeping bag. “As my sister so nicely implied, I’m contributing next to nothing with my presence.”
Worms drop out of her mouth in twos and threes, falling to the sand and burrowing in it.
I should scream. I recognize that in myself. But I’ve seen the worms so many times, I’m actually getting numb to the sight. Amazing.
“I didn’t mean—” Rae holds up her hand, but Lola ignores her sister.
She grabs two more rolls from the pile and tosses them at Elizabeth and Preston. “You two also get a sleeping bag, since our useless talents are what provided these rations to begin with. And you.” She throws a sleeping bag at Sylvie. “You get one because you said the flowers I wove into my braids are cute, when everyone else was just focusing on my worms.”
Lola marches off, with Elizabeth meekly following her, Preston aggressively stomping, and Sylvie bringing up the rear.
The pile of sleeping bags is limited—and quickly dwindling. Six bags remain, to be divvied up among the eight of us.
“I volunteer to sleep on the sand,” Mama says quickly, “so long as Alaia gets a sleeping bag.”
“Oh, sweetie, you don’t have to do that,” Khun Anita interjects. “I’m sure one of these men…”
“Will what?” Eduardo scowls. “Volunteer to trade in our comfort just because we have a Y chromosome?”
“Well, yes,” Khun Anita says, taken aback.
“No thanks, Grandma.” Eduardo stuffs a roll under his arm. “I spent most of last night on the edge of the shelter, getting soaked by the rain. I’m due some comfort as well.” He stalks off.
Khun Anita turns to her grandson. “Kit—”
But it’s too late. The fourteen-year-old seizes not one but two sleeping bags and hightails it to the shelter. “It’s every person for themselves, Nani. I’ll save you a spot.”
Three bags left. Rae, Mateo, Bodin, Mama, and I remain.
“Pah Moh gets a sleeping bag and a spot under the shelter,” Rae says. Mama starts to argue, and Rae holds up her hand. “That’s nonnegotiable. We might be young, but we’re not completely without respect.” She looks at Mateo and Bodin, who nod quickly.
“I’ll be bold and take one, as well,” Rae adds with a saucy grin. “I’ll leave it among the three of you to fight over the last one.”
“Alaia needs—” Mama starts to say.
“I’m fine,” I cut her off, even though I don’t mean it, humiliation blazing my cheeks. “You go ahead.”
Mama hesitates, as though torn between protecting me and accommodating my OCD, but then she joins the others under the shelter.
I can’t look at the boys. I have been coddled all of my life, being a neurodivergent only child. I live in a certain bubble, protected by Mama and Papa from a disordered world. As I grew older, I realized the kind of burden my dependence was putting on my parents, especially Mama. It’s strange: most kids crave independence from their parents, but to me, they’re safety. When I’m with them, it feels like things can’t go wrong. And that’s all I ever crave, really. For things to feel right.
But, well… I’m ashamed of hiding behind Mama’s protective shield. I’m ashamed that I’m not my own person. I’m ashamed that I haven’t tried harder to be independent. I’m ashamed that I can’t even speak up to claim a bedroll, even though sleeping without one is unfathomable.
The truth is, sometimes my OCD has its claws so twisted up with my soul that I can’t tell where it ends and I begin. I can’t tell what parts are really me—and what parts are my mental disorder. I rely on my parents so much because I don’t know if I can trust myself. And that is the biggest shame of all: because if I can’t trust myself, then what will become of me when Mama’s gone?
“Don’t worry about it, Alaia,” Bodin says, misinterpreting my expression. “You can have the sleeping bag. I don’t mind sleeping on the ground. Whatcha think, Mateo?”
“I agree one hundred,” Mateo says, a dimple flashing in his cheek. “It’s the least I can do to make up for my brother being a boor.”
Relief floods through me, even if a different shame cuts through that feeling. I got the sleeping bag without having to beg for it—but only because I took advantage of the generosity of these two guys. I can’t dwell on that part, however. Because procuring a sleeping bag is only the first hurdle. All of the spots underneath the main shelter and the lean-to are now full. I feel bad enough that I didn’t volunteer to give up the sleeping bag. I can hardly insist that someone, probably Mama, sacrifice, so that I can sleep elevated off the sand. And thus, the second, and more important, hurdle remains. How on earth am I going to sleep on the ground with just the thin barrier of a nylon bedroll?