They arrive at the fire watchtower before sundown and Devin nearly collapses in relief. Not a burnt husk, but a real building. Magruder Point is just like Josiah Templeton said—a sturdy block of wood built high on a rugged cliff overlooking the dense green valley below. A deck wraps its way around the building like a belt, a solid ten feet from the ground. The trees cut off a hundred yards from the building, leaving the cliffside entirely exposed.
Devin doesn’t hesitate. She drops her backpack at her feet, dashing up the gravelly incline. The deck groans under her weight, but it doesn’t crumble. After days of traveling with Aidan’s paranoia, Sheridan’s strangely hostile quiet, and the shadow of mimics at her back, she doesn’t need this thing to be a resort. She needs it to have something to eat, blankets, and a night away from the cold. She throws herself against the front door and tugs hard, but it doesn’t open. She presses her face to the door’s murky glass pane, cupping her hands just enough to see inside.
A sink. A bed. Shelves that aren’t empty.
“Is it locked?” Aidan calls up to her, slowly mounting the stairs to the deck.
Sheridan stands at the base of the gravelly slope, hands on her hips. Devin can’t tell if it’s skepticism about the watchtower or something else, but for the first time in a few days, she doesn’t care what’s going through Sheridan’s head. She pulls her spare pants from her backpack and wraps them around her arm before smashing her elbow through the glass.
“You’re breaking in?” Aidan gasps. He finally reaches the deck and drops his bags at his feet. “We shouldn’t … what if someone lives here?”
Devin reaches through the door, careful not to slice her underarm on the jagged glass. Her fingers close over the metal trigger of a lock and she pulls the door open, exhaling her relief. “If someone calls to say we’re breaking in, that’s good for us. That means we’re getting rescued.”
“And maybe going to prison,” Aidan adds.
Devin snorts. “They have food in prison.”
Once the door is open, Aidan’s protests stop. The station is bigger inside than it seemed. On one end of the massive room, there’s a desk and wooden chair coated in inches of dust, a gas lantern sitting on top. There are five beds in the station: two sets of flat-mattressed bunk beds and a single bed by the desk. Devin notices the kitchenette, briefly wonders if the sink works, but the thing that really grabs her eye is the massive pantry. Tin cans are stacked one on top of the other, mingling with dusty mason jars and burlap sacks.
Devin and Aidan run to the shelves and begin pulling things down. A can of peaches, strawberry preserves, black beans, corn. Things she might’ve eaten reluctantly back home. Now, her stomach groans so loud she has to fight the urge to bust the cans open with her teeth.
Aidan clutches a jar of preserved pears and looks up at her. “There’s enough that we can eat some now, right?”
“Open ’em up,” Devin says. “We deserve it.”
And then Aidan does something that surprises her. He throws his arms around her, pulling her into a tight hug. Devin stiffens, panics about whether to hug him back. But as quickly as he grabs her, he lets her go and unscrews the lid of his mason jar, sliding a wedge of pear into his mouth.
Devin’s fingers brush the cans, eyes scanning for anything with protein. She grabs a squat can marked SALMON, prying it open on the corner of the counter. Without hesitation, she spills the contents into her mouth, the salty brine blossoming on her tongue so fast it makes her dizzy. She hadn’t realized how deeply she craved real food. When she looks down, Aidan has finished his entire jar of pears, already plucking a bag of jerky from the back of the shelf.
Sheridan’s shadow stretches across the floorboards. Devin turns, waiting for her to join them, but she doesn’t. She leans against the door, arms folded over her chest, watching them feast. Devin wipes her mouth and looks away.
The first time the two of them split off, they might’ve hated each other, but at least they spoke. Since they untied Sheridan, she’s been so quiet it’s unnerving. When she speaks, it’s strange and barbed. It isn’t even the amused cruelty she used to inflict on everyone in sight. And Devin wants to understand it. She doesn’t want to slip right back into hating Sheridan. But it’s hard not to when she’s so indifferent to the second chance Devin fought to give her. It’s almost like she’s angry she was given a second chance. Like she’d rather they just exiled her.
Aidan tears open the pack of jerky, handing a strip to Devin. He almost tosses one to Sheridan, but one look at her face tells them both she’s uninterested. Sheridan points to the bed in the farthest corner of the cabin.
“This one’s mine.”
“I don’t think anyone cares what bed you take,” Devin says. “Come get food.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Devin eyes Aidan, but he’s lost in the cabin’s cupboards, flinging open dust-coated doors to reveal shelves upon shelves of food. Some of it is aged beyond rescue—a block of something on one of the old counters is blue and shriveled—but there are cans of beans, more jarred fruits, packages of nuts. No more relying on their ravaged food drops. They’ve found months of food in one place. If they can transport even a fraction of this back down the mountain, they’ll have enough to last the rest of the trip. They found it thanks to Sheridan, and for some reason, Sheridan acts like she has nothing to celebrate.
“This is awesome,” Aidan says. “We’re … we’re not gonna die.”
“Nope,” Devin says. She chances a look at Sheridan as she drops her things on the farthest bed, standing with her back to them. With a sigh, Devin adds, “And we can thank Sheridan for finding this place. Right?”
Aidan eyes Devin, then Sheridan.
“You were right about the cabin,” Aidan says.
He pointedly doesn’t say thank you. Devin doesn’t want to be the mediator, but the tension in the air is thick enough to taste. Before they go to sleep tonight, this needs to be sorted out.
“You wanna thank her?” Devin asks. “And maybe apologize for the other stuff?”
“For what?” Aidan asks.
Sheridan turns now, eyeing Aidan with a raised brow.
“Coach Liv knew where things were, too,” Aidan says. “She knew how to get to all the milestones. I know you’re helping us, but … I mean, if she was good at maps before, she would probably still be good at maps now.”
“Or maybe,” Sheridan says, “if I’m a mimic, I’d already knew this place was here. Who knows?”
“Aidan.” Devin sighs, ignoring Sheridan. “Why would she—”
“Jesus,” Sheridan snaps. “If that’s what he thinks, that’s what he thinks. Why don’t you stop trying to force it?”
“Excuse me?” Devin asks.
“Just leave it.”
All three of them stare at each other now, Devin with half a strip of jerky tight in her grip, Aidan with his arms full of cans, Sheridan with a glare sharp enough to cut. Devin wants to push her on this because it doesn’t make any sense. They should be celebrating. They should be relieved they won’t die.
Aidan moves first, unloading his bundle of cans on the countertop. “I’ll take first watch, I guess.”
“You can stay inside,” Devin says. “It’s—”
“I’d rather be outside,” Aidan says. “I need fresh air.”
Aidan shuffles outside, closing the door behind him. With only Devin and Sheridan left, the atmosphere turns to ice. Devin pulls a few cans down from the shelf, stacking them into a pyramid on the counter. She swallows, avoiding Sheridan’s eyes. “You really should eat something. I know your situation makes you … not hungry. But you should—”
“I’m fine.”
Sheridan kicks her boots off and climbs onto her bed. Devin should leave her to stew in her feelings, but instead, she makes her way across the room. Sheridan stiffens, but says nothing.
“Whatever your deal is,” Devin says under her breath, “I suggest you get over it.”
Sheridan looks up. “What?”
“You’ve been acting weird,” Devin says. “Clearly you’re going through something, but I risked a lot vouching for you. Keep acting all ice queen and you’re not going to convince anyone to trust you.”
“I’m not the only one acting weird,” Sheridan says.
Devin narrows her eyes. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Sorry I’m not grateful enough,” Sheridan says, looking back down at her knees. “Maybe I just think it’s weird you never used to stick up for me.”
Devin stands at Sheridan’s side for another few seconds, waiting for her to say something that makes sense. But Sheridan turns over so her back faces Devin. She stays that way until Devin finally heads back to the pantry. Outside, Aidan carefully makes his fire, the setting sun turning the whole cliff bronze. Devin tries to convince herself it was a good idea to come here. It was a good idea to vouch for Sheridan. They’re going to make it off this cliff, out of this forest, back to the real world. They’ll survive. She doesn’t have to deal with Sheridan or these woods for much longer.
In practice, the spear is heavier than Ollie thought it would be. He flips it in his palm, squeezing until his knuckles hurt. One way or another, they have to eat. The last of the hash browns are still warm in the pit of his stomach, staving off the hunger for now, but potatoes can only do so much heavy lifting. Eventually, they’ll need something with substance.
The day is even quieter than the first day without the others. Hannah sits under her tarp with the last packets of food in a circle around her. She counts them, sorting them into a system Ollie can’t begin to understand. She’s rationing the food, but not evenly. She gives him more, thinking he won’t notice.
He does.
Hannah’s hair is in two braids today, the tips of them brushing her shoulders. Her hair is longer than it was when they started this program, the ends more jagged and unkempt.
Maybe the measly pile of food will last until the others return, if they return at all. And maybe Sheridan wasn’t lying and there really is a cabin full of supplies waiting for them at the mountaintop. But Ollie’s father had a saying about these kinds of things. Hope for the best and plan for the worst.
He stands. “I’m gonna hunt, I think.”
Hannah’s eyes snap from the food. When she looks back down, she presses her palm to her forehead. “I lost count. I … nope. It’s gone.”
“Sorry,” Ollie offers. “If I get something, we can hold off on the rationing, right?”
“Maybe.” Hannah taps her pencil to her chin. “Depends on what you catch. And if we can figure out what to do with it.”
“I’m sure Aidan would have a whole list of fun facts about whatever I catch,” Ollie says. “I bet he’d know how to cook a deer.”
Hannah looks out at the trees and frowns. “I hope he’s okay. I hope they’re being nice to him.”
“Devin won’t let Sheridan say anything to him,” Ollie muses. After a moment, he adds, “You’d be okay with that? Hunting?”
Hannah sighs. “I’m anti-hunting food we don’t need. But we’re gonna starve out here. All the food drops are ruined. I don’t like it, but we have to do this or we won’t make it.”
Ollie nods. He doesn’t want to kill, either. In fact, the thought of having to skin something, having to transform it from animal to food, makes him nauseous. But hunger is worse than nausea, and it doesn’t go away. If he doesn’t figure out how to do this now, they’ll run out of time. He turns to leave, but Hannah takes his wrist.
“Oh,” Hannah says, quickly smiling. “Sorry. I just … wanted to go with you.”
A feeling bubbles up in him, a mixture of nausea and dizziness. He sucks in a deep breath. It feels familiar and disorienting all at once. Hannah reaches out and lightly touches his elbow.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” Ollie says. He offers a feeble smile. “You can come with.”
They hike from camp in silence, the quiet settling in like a deep breath. They crest a small, wooded hill that dips into a lush valley of trees green as emeralds. A creek splits the valley floor in two, a vein of glassy water trickling through the quiet. Ollie eases down the hill, scouring the creek for any movement while Hannah creeps in his shadow.
As they trudge along, Ollie can’t help but think about his father again. It’s almost nonstop, the further they go. He’d thought this would get easier with time, but it only gets harder. Ollie thinks of the width of his father’s pale, calloused hands and the slivers of gray rooted in his sandy hair. He doesn’t miss the yelling or the silent nights spent on opposite sides of the house. He doesn’t miss his father cornering him in the hall, hand hard on Ollie’s shoulder, a report card crunched in his fist.
But no matter how hard he tries, Ollie misses the good. He misses his father’s smile in the living room doorway, watching Ollie place a damp cloth to his grandma’s forehead. He misses that nod at breakfast, the silent acknowledgment that they’d made it through another day. That they’d last another. God, he misses it so fucking much. Without warning, the woods go quiet.
It’s sudden, like missing a step. It stops Ollie in his tracks. He presses his palm to the nearest thin-barked tree and turns to Hannah. She eyes him and her gaze widens.
There’s nothing.
Not the trickle of running water, not the wind as it swells through the leaves, not the rustle of branches colliding overhead. Ollie breathes and the wheeze in his chest is the only thing he can hear.
A hundred yards away, a small deer leans over the stream, pressing its nose to the water. Ollie freezes. It should feel like a miracle, but instead, it feels like a trap. Instinctively, he reaches behind him and places a hand on Hannah’s shoulder.
“We have to get closer,” Hannah whispers.
Ollie nods.
They inch forward as a single unit and the spear feels slick in Ollie’s sweaty hand. He doesn’t want to kill, but his stomach rumbles. He’s heard Hannah’s stomach growling these last few days, too. It makes him sick, but there’s only one choice.
The deer continues lapping at the water, unaware of the threat. Ollie’s grip on the spear tightens.
Something rustles nearby.
Ollie expects the deer’s eyes to land on him and Hannah, but instead, its head darts up. It scans the trees, ears swiveling with alarm. Ollie follows its gaze and his blood goes cold.
A face is tucked in the foliage directly above the deer. Its skin isn’t the color of human skin. It’s green-gray, sickly, and dark enough to blend into the trees. Its head is lolled to the side, the skin on its face drooping like it’s melting. One moment, its eyes are locked on the deer, but slowly its gaze slides to Ollie. Its thin, rubbery lips curl into a smile.
“Oh my god.” Ollie breathes. “Oh my god. Is that a…”
“… mimic?” Hannah asks shakily. “I think so.”
It shouldn’t floor him like this. He saw the rubber-necked mimic at the campfire, and he heard Aidan describe one with arms that braided around a tree trunk. He knows the impossibility of them, but it doesn’t stop this one from snatching the air from his lungs.
The mimic shifts, its long fingers parting the leaves. It doesn’t come down from the tree, though. It stops once it has a clear view of them on the forest floor, smile widening by the second.
“We need to go,” Ollie says.
“No,” Hannah says. She pulls Ollie to face her. “We need this. Let’s just … wait and see what it does.”
“Wait?” Ollie hisses.
“What if it doesn’t do anything to us?”
“What if it does?”
As the mimic rotates, its hanging flesh rotates with it. Ollie’s never had a real panic attack before, but if the whip-sharpness of his breath means anything, he’s sure he’s having his first. He imagines the mimic wearing his father’s skin again and he fights the urge to run. He can’t feel his fingers.
“I’ll be right behind you,” Hannah says. “If you get the deer, I think we can grab it and get away before that thing catches up.”
Ollie turns to make sure it’s still Hannah behind him. Her eyes are wide like always, watery with fear. She meets his gaze and arches a brow, overgrown bangs fluttering against her forehead.
“Why aren’t you scared?” Ollie asks.
“I am scared,” Hannah says. “But I’m more scared of starving.”
Above them, the mimic shifts again.
Ollie sucks in a breath, draws his arm back, and launches the spear at the deer. It’s a messy throw, the spear wobbling in the air before planting itself in the earth a few feet in front of the deer. At the sudden noise, the deer bolts into the trees.
Ollie bolts after the spear, but in the seconds it takes him to reach the creek and grab it, the deer is long gone. He turns back to face Hannah, but she hasn’t moved an inch. She looks up, eyes wide, as a long, oozing tendril of the mimic’s skin drips toward the forest floor. Ollie follows the flesh up to the canopy, finds the mimic’s face again. Its wide, bright eyes are trained on Ollie. It licks its lips.
“Ollie…” Hannah warns. “Hold very still.”
Ollie swallows hard, clutching his spear for dear life. His eyes don’t leave the mimic. “I don’t think I can move.”
Slowly, the mimic begins easing itself from the trees. Its shoulders and torso are just as rubbery as its face, spilling from the canopy in one long column like a snake. When its skin finally reaches the forest floor, it begins to pool. Its head teeters as it descends so that its eyes are always upright, always watching Ollie.
Ollie raises his spear.
“Wait,” the mimic says.
Ollie recognizes its voice, but this time, it isn’t fear that fills him. It’s anger. Again, the mimic wears his father’s voice. Its face begins to bubble like a pot coming to boil. Its jaw hardens, eyes sinking before lightening. The outline of his father’s face begins to take shape.
“No,” Ollie says, adjusting his grip on the spear. “I don’t know what you want, but I’m not doing it. You can’t—”
“Ollie,” the mimic says. “Please just listen.”
It shakes its head as its body rises, taking shape. Within seconds, Ollie sees the most obvious features of his father setting in—his thick brow, his crooked nose, the scar on his upper lip from a boating accident. But there are details the mimic has wrong, too. His eyes are too light, too even, too wide. His neck is too thick, shoulders just slightly too broad. He’s a close imitation of his father, but that’s it. An imitation.
“Why do you look so scared, Ollie?” the mimic asks. “I know you aren’t scared of me. C’mon … talk to me.”
“How…?” Ollie whimpers.
From behind the mimic, Ollie hears the thumping of footfalls, and then the mimic’s eyes go wide. It topples to the forest floor. Hannah straddles it with their hunting knife wedged between her trembling fists. She pulls the knife out of the mimic—out of Ollie’s father—and brings it down again. There’s no blood splatter, no crunching of bones.
Ollie drops his spear. Every inch of him goes numb.
“Leave. Him. Alone,” Hannah roars, punctuating each word with another stab.
She pulls the knife out one last time and stumbles off the limp mimic. Before Ollie can catch his breath, Hannah crawls to him and pushes the spear back into his hand. They clamber to their feet together, retreating downstream. Ollie’s breath is razor-sharp, the edges of his vision blurring, but he runs. Before they can break into the cover of the trees, Hannah turns back to the clearing.
“We already killed two of you!” she cries out. “We’ll kill more if you don’t leave us alone!”
When Ollie turns, the mimic that was disguised as his father is back to its rubbery, green form. But it isn’t dead. It pushes itself from the forest floor, slinking back to the nearest tree trunk. In silence, Ollie and Hannah watch it climb into the leaves.
“Why did it…?” Ollie starts.
Hannah grabs his hand, pulling him along behind her. They dash through the trees, branches and vines whipping Ollie’s cheeks as they go. If the mimic follows them, it’s silent. Ollie stumbles over rocks and roots, but he never fully loses his footing. He keeps his eyes on the bob and sway of Hannah’s braids, the rise and fall of her shoulders. They run until they crash back into the campsite, collapsing into the grass.
Ollie rolls onto his back, staring up into the punch of blue sky visible between trees. His vision spins until he closes his eyes to keep from throwing up. Behind his eyelids, he sees the mimic bubbling into his father’s face. Over and over, more grotesque each time. His hands ball into fists at his sides.
“Hey.”
Hannah’s voice breaks through his panic. When he opens his eyes, Hannah is hovering over him, cheeks red with exhaustion. She tucks a braid behind her ear and Ollie’s heart stammers.
“You saved me…” Ollie says. “You—”
Hannah leans down, quieting him with a kiss. And maybe it’s the adrenaline and the fear and the relief rushing through his veins, but he takes Hannah’s face and kisses her back. He kisses her until she pulls away, out of breath, a half smile soft on her lips. Ollie smiles, too, brushing a bit of her hair away from her face. He feels it again, that dizziness. That draw, like he’s being pulled up by his chest. When his eyes drift down, something strikes him.
Hannah’s cross necklace is gone.