DAWN’S BACK AT HEADQUARTERS when they bring in the bodies.

She’s sitting at a cafeteria table drinking hot tea and eating whatever she damn well feels like—i.e., chicken fingers with ranch dressing—and wearing dry clothes.

(The only spare clothes they had to give her were Polar Bear blue.)

(#MostAdvanced.)

(Dawn figures she’s earned it.)

She’s sitting there surrounded by concerned and very solicitous Out of the Wild staff members and counselors, and by a bunch of suits from the head office who are already looking at her like she’s a mid-seven-figure lawsuit liability.

Dawn can hear the hushed whispers as the suits study her. As they try to figure out what it’ll take to keep her quiet.

She doesn’t care about that. Not right now.

Not with the helicopter landing outside.