Chapter Twenty-Seven

And we wait. And wait. And wait.

Apparently, I picked such a good hiding place that none of the other castaways even think to wander in this direction, not even Mama. Of course, it’s possible—and even likely—that Khun Anita had informed Mama that she would distract me.

After an hour, Khun Anita pushes herself off the flat boulder on which she’s been sitting. “My bones are creaking. And your mother will be wondering where you are. The hair will be here tomorrow. If no one finds the hair and follows the message embedded within it by then, we can always lead somewhere here and ask them to touch it.”

She pats me on the cheek and then trudges back toward camp.

I stand slowly, first shaking out one foot and then the other. They’re both tingling due to me sitting in the same position for so long. But that’s not why I’m lingering.

The sun has sunk into the sea, leaving behind orange and purple streaks, as though the sky itself mourns its departure. The water splashes onto the beach in a lulling pattern, a gentle meeting of the elements rather than an angry give-and-take. It’s been peaceful here, sitting next to Khun Anita, listening to the waves, watching Mother Nature paint the sky.

My mind is calm. No intrusive thoughts jostle for dominance. In fact, I’m not thinking at all, and I’m not quite ready to lose this peace.

I walk along the beach, right at the water’s edge. The waves kiss my sneakers, soaking them bit by bit. I wish I could take them off—no doubt, barefoot in the sand is a more romantic aesthetic—but such an action is inconceivable.

A few yards later, I realize I’m not alone. A figure sits on a large rock, its snout tilted toward the sky. Not a fellow castaway, then, but a croc-person.

I walk toward the rock, making plenty of noise so as not to startle them. They turn as I approach, and in the dim light, I recognize him, still in his silver uniform—the one croc-person who bothered to acknowledge me, the one who seemed to smile sadly at my troubles.

“Lovely night, isn’t it?” I say as I perch on the rock next to him. And it is. The stars are beginning to peek out. I can identify the cluster of the mother hen and her six chicks, which Bodin pointed out to me only a few days ago. So much has happened. Everything has changed. And yet, the same sky continues to blanket us. The same stars sparkle proudly, indifferent to what happens below.

There’s comfort in that. No matter what I do—live or die, survive or fail—the stars will continue to shine. The world will continue to spin. Life will go on.

The croc-person grunts, which is more than I was hoping for.

“I have a favor to ask,” I say slowly, holding up my wrists. “These cuffs—”

“I know.” His voice is low, gravelly, and very guttural, as though he’s swallowed a bunch of rocks and they’re grinding against one another.

“So you can speak,” I say wryly.

“For the time being,” he says. “Words get more difficult to retrieve with each transformation.”

I bite my lip. Inside this croc-person is a human, just like Mateo, imprisoned in a cage that gets more permanent with each passing day. It seems shallow to bother him with my cuffs, and yet, I only have a short reprieve before I spiral once more.

Before I can figure out how to phrase my request, he holds up something small and shiny. I suck in a breath. Is that what I think it is?

“I didn’t have the tool when you asked me earlier. Now, I do.” Each word is slow and guttural, but I understand him easily. So, the croc-people are allowed to interact with us. The others, earlier, just couldn’t be bothered. I’m touched and honored that this croc-person would go to so much trouble for me.

Without speaking, he fits the tool into my invisible cuffs and turns until I hear a whoosh. Just like that, the wind dissipates, and I’m free.

Joy bubbles up inside me, and I look at him, gratitude in my eyes.

“My name is Three,” the croc-person says.

“Three? Like the number?” I ask.

“Yep.”

“I’m Alaia,” I say, even as I wonder if all the croc-people are stripped of their original names when they become Xander’s employees. An impersonal number, versus a unique identifier, keeps them in line. It reminds them, even if they sometimes walk on two feet, that they are always something separate from humanity. Always under Xander’s control.

Which, frankly, makes two of us.

“The windcuffs were a test, to push you to your limits,” Three says. “The helicopter pilot didn’t leave by accident. Xander instructed him to take off without uncuffing you. It wasn’t your fault.”

My mouth parts. The voice inside me has been berating me all afternoon. I was careless. I wasn’t thinking. I was too impulsive. And with a single speech, Three has laid my self-recriminations to rest.

“Thank you,” I say. “That means a lot to me.”

He stands, and I swear that he winks. If my memories from visiting the crocodile farms are correct, crocodiles have extra eyelids, the third one being a transparent membrane that covers their eyeballs so that they can see under water.

“Wait—” I say, as something occurs to me. “If the windcuffs were a test, will you get in trouble for helping me?”

“Not important.” There’s no tone in a croc-person’s voice, no nuance. I can’t tell if Three means that he won’t get in very much trouble—or if he will but he doesn’t want me to worry about it.

I’m more touched than ever. This croc-person, whom I don’t even know, sacrificed to alleviate my pain and suffering, just because he is a decent creature.

With this much goodness in the world, we have to be able to escape this hell of a paradise. Good triumphs over evil. That’s what happens in every fable, in every folktale, right? And it has to apply here, in Xander’s world, because this is the island where those tales come to life.

“I have to go,” Three says abruptly. “But if you or your mother or any of the other castaways need anything, just ask for me. Three. The others will know who you’re talking about.” He points up at the night sky. “The moon’s coming.”

“What happens when the moon comes?” I call.

But he has no response for me. With one last tip of the head, which I’m beginning to equate to a smile, he hurries away.