Pamela May Donald lies on her side, watching the boy as he flits with the others in the trees.
‘Help me,’ she croaks.
She fumbles for her phone. It’s somewhere in her fanny pack, she’s certain of that. C’mon, c’mon, c’mon. Her fingers stroke it, she almost has it… so close, you can do it… but she can’t quite seem to… There’s something wrong with her fingers. They won’t work, they’re numb, dead, no longer belong to her.
‘Snookie,’ she whispers, or maybe she only thinks she says it aloud. Either way, it’s the only word that comes into her mind before she dies.
The boy skips over to her, tiptoeing around the roots and wreckage. He looks down at Pamela May Donald’s body. She’s gone. Snuffed out before she could record the message. He’s disappointed, but it’s happened before and he was starting to get bored with this game anyway. They all were. It doesn’t matter. Even without the message, it always ends in the same way.
He sinks to his haunches, wraps his arms around his knees, and shivers. He can hear the distant thwupping sound of the rescue helicopters approaching. He always enjoys being hoisted up into the helicopter’s belly. This will be fun, no matter what.
But next time, he’ll do it differently. And he thinks he knows how.