The boys are looking now, no doubt about that. Alexa tosses a scowl their way and runs full speed into the breaking surf. With one strong wave, she goes under.
Tears prick my eyes. I don’t know what madness this is, but it’s so much more than a midnight swim.
“Alexa!” I shout, running toward the water, with Hope quick on my heels. But Alexa doesn’t come up.
No one can stay under forever. I just hope, when she resurfaces, she’s still there. Images of the Kiribati disasters flood my mind, a thousand thousand lifeless shells. Days ago, I would have wished a watery death on any—all—of the Wolves. Any sort of death.
Not now.
Hope and I are soon shoulder-deep in salt water. It’s hard enough to keep our own heads above the waves when they crash, let alone look for Alexa’s in this darkness. The current pulls us farther and farther out of our depth. Alexa gasps somewhere behind me, close but not close enough, and my hope is floating on every one of her breaths because I’m so afraid they’ll be drowned out, that all I’ll hear is silence. I remember learning, a long time ago, when everyone I knew had a pool and a pool house to go with it, that drowning is more silent than splashy. But not even that is a comfort.
A light touch wraps around my wrist, and tingles course through me—please, no—I hate jellyfish—but there is a distinct lack of sting. The light touch becomes a firm grasp, and then another hand steadies me in this most unsteady tide. It’s too strong, too bold, to be Hope’s.
Dark hair, light eyes: the most intimidating of the three boys. His glare is fierce, intense. Nothing at all like the gentle way he holds on to me.
“Alexa!” I shout, as we brace for another wave. We’re far enough out now that it doesn’t crash over our heads, but it’s powerful enough that we’re on quite the ride. His grip stays firm. “Save Alexa,” I repeat, and take in a mouthful of seawater. I spit it out. “I’m a strong swimmer.”
He doesn’t let go of me, and honestly—not that I’d admit it to him—I’m glad. It’s been years since I’ve swum in ocean waves, in dark ocean waves. Not once did I ever swim alone.
“Cass is already on it,” he says. “And the other one’s safe on the sand.” His voice matches his face more than his gentle hands, like he’d much rather be swigging rum with the boys around their giant bonfire.
“No one asked for you to come out after us, you know,” I say, very much aware of how ungrateful I sound. This isn’t ideal, especially on the heels of conceding a territorial dispute—I don’t want them thinking we’re helpless, because we’re not. We ride the momentum of another wave, let it carry us closer to the sand.
“Oh, no?” Finally, the hint of a smile is on his lips. “Maybe you didn’t.”
He doesn’t elaborate, but I’m pretty sure I understand. Alexa was begging for their attention before she ever set foot in the water. She sits now, huddled and shivering, on the beach with Hope. Cass cared enough to save her, apparently, but not enough to stay with her. I wonder if this was enough to pass her test.
When it’s shallow and we are able to walk, he finally lets go of me. He’s a little faster than I am and doesn’t wait up. His bare back and legs are slick with water that catches moonlight as it drips down his skin.
“You can warm up by our fire,” he calls over his shoulder. “All of you.”
The more I’m out of the water and exposed to the beach breeze, the more impossible it becomes to decline—we could get a sunburn from their fire, it’s so much more powerful than ours.
The sand coats my feet, all the way up to my ankles, gritty and grating between my toes. I’m not in a hurry to catch up with him: the fire will take care of the chill in the air, but I anticipate a deeper sort of coldness once the seven of us are gathered together in a single group for the night.
I’m not wrong.
THIRTY-FOUR
I PLANT MYSELF far from the fire, far from the others, closer to the ocean than the jungle. Alone. It isn’t like I’m missing anything, though: before I turned my back on them all, Hope had managed to fall asleep, and Alexa was simmering beside her, glaring daggers into Cass and the others. They ignored her.
Together, the fire and moon glow bright enough that I’m able to study the field guide. This island, my father—what we’ve found here doesn’t make any sense. I scan every sketch for traces of code, every page for something I might have missed, to see if I can make out any patterns. It’s useless. Deciphering it is impossible without a key to clue me in. I flip back to the beginning, start over with the actual words on the page.
For those who travel straight and narrow, the inscription on the title page reads, for those who go steady and slow, for those who do good and do well. My father lived by those fundamental tenets, lived with more focus and patience and integrity than anyone I’ve ever known. I’ve adopted this credo as my own over the years.
Straight and narrow.
Steady and slow.
Do good. Do well.
I try to do him proud.
A pair of folded black pants falls to the sand at my side. I snap the book closed, look up, and see Dark Hair Light Eyes Water Savior. He’s put on a fresh black T-shirt and some tight gray pants since I last saw him. The pants in the sand appear to be sewn in the exact same style.
“Put them on or you’ll freeze.” He’s not exactly friendly, but not exactly not. It’s the first interaction I’ve had with anyone in an hour.
“You should give them to Alexa,” I say. Boy pants are always too straight where I have curves. “Thanks, though.”
He picks up the pants, sits down in their place. “You say that as if I care if she’s warm.”
“And you care if I’m warm?” I hold my limbs tightly in place so I don’t graze any part of him. At least he’s giving off body heat.
“Care is too strong a word.”
“What are you doing here, then?”
In the firelight, the blue of his eyes sparkles like clear, shallow water on a sunny day. The skin on his face is smooth and flawless, and up close, his days-old stubble is more clean-cut than I originally gave him credit for. I’ve learned you can’t implicitly trust a nice appearance, though. Not even that of someone who passes up the opportunity to drown you in the waves.
Admittedly, that does win him a little of my favor.
“Here-on-this-island here?” He cocks his head, smirking. “Or here beside you?”
I give him a pointed look. “We both know you aren’t going to spill any secrets. You’re too smart for that.” And he is. I know it as soon as it’s out of my mouth: just as it’s wise for me to be wary of him, he’s wary of me. Nothing personal—it’s the way things have to be. It’s sad, really, that the world has turned to this.
“I’m here because of the look on your face when she ran out into the water,” he says. “You clearly hate the Wolves, so logically, it made the most sense to let the water have its way. But then another part of you took over, and you went out after her anyway.”