DONE

Five lines. Five pretty white lines on a dark piece of wood. One, two, three, four, five. Five mornings with no food. Five mornings with no shelter. Five mornings with no sign of Upton Giles, the guy who claimed he loved me.

I had really thought Upton was going to save me. I figured he'd pay the guys off, find out where I was, and swoop in to rescue me. Obviously, that hadn't happened. So what had happened, exactly? Would I ever know? Was I goingto die on this stupid fruitless, foodless, waterless island never knowing why?

God, I had turned into a whiner. I was such a whiner I was starting to annoy myself. But then, I had no one else to talk to. And really, if you can't whine in a situation like this, when can you whine?

Why hadn't I gotten on that commercial flight to Atlanta? Why hadn't I followed my instincts and fled? Because Noelle and Upton had convinced me to stay. I had allowed two people who clearly didn't

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give two shits about me to keep me here. Here, where I was clearly going to die.

Two shits. That was a funny expression.

The bandana that was formerly my gag was covering my head, two corners tied under my chin to secure it. It was morning, so I had removed the T-shirt that had been serving as a meager blanket at night, and sat at the edge of the tree line in my now tattered and muddy red dress. Last night it had rained again and I had ventured back the woods, looking for my tree, but I hadn't been able to find it. Instead I had spent way too much time wandering hopelessly in circles, tipping fat leaves toward my lips to drink the tiny, tiny puddles of water that had formed there. My stomach had reacted with anger. Obviously, it had assumed something better was coming, not just a few teaspoons of water. I had retched it all up moments later, my knees pressed into the cold, wet earth, my hands braced on a fallen log.

Not my finest moment.

But then, none of the moments on this island had been. Not the hours I had spent trying to use my compact mirror to light a fire, which had never worked. Not the spectacular fall I had taken from the rock ledge while trying to spear those teeny-tiny fish with a branch. Not the many, many, many nervous breakdowns I'd had, crying out for Upton, for my parents, for Josh, for anyone. There was a point last night, when the rain had been pounding down around me and I had been shivering uncontrollably under the darkened branches of a twisted, nightmarish tree that gave less than zero shelter, when I had even wished the kidnappers would come back.

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Because clearly I was going to die here. And if they came back, it would at least be quick.

Where were they? Maybe Upton had refused to pay. Maybe they had gone to the person who had hired them, told whoever it was that I was already dead, taken their money and gone. Why not? I was as good as dead. This way, they didn't have to waste all that gas, not to mention the bullet it would take, to finish the job.

I looked down at my arms, raging red with sunburn, and pressed my lips together against the onslaught of horrifying emotions. Above all, I was disappointed in myself. I had always thought I was a strong person. A survivor. But as it turned out, I was helpless--and hopeless. I hadn't been able to make fire. Hadn't been able to find shelter. Hadn't eaten a thing in five days. In books and movies, when people were thrown into this situation, they always rose to the occasion. They fashioned axes out of sharp rocks and homes out of tree limbs and palm fronds. They learned to catch fish, clean them, cook them, and eat them. They even found ways to entertain themselves, tossing rocks or chasing crabs or exploring caves.

But I was bored. Bored, tired, scared, starving, weak, stupid, useless, friendless, loveless, sunburned, dirty, and done.

I stared at the pile of driftwood I had built for the fire I had been so certain I was going to start. The wood was gnarly and bleached white from the sun. If I looked at it just so, it could have been a pile of bones.

That was what I was going to look like when--if--anyone ever found me.

One big pile of bleached white bones.

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WATCHING

Six white lines. Six. Yesterday I had assumed I would never see six white lines. Had assumed I'd be dead before that could happen.

But I woke up this morning. Not dead.

Weird.

It was another beautiful, sunny day in the Caribbean. Not a cloud in sight. Somewhere people were reveling in this fact. They'd picked a good week for vacation, all right! Butnotme. I wouldhave given up a limb for a cloudy day. My skin was peeling off in long strips. As much as I tried to stay in the shade, it was freezing the moment I stepped--or crawled, usually--from the beach into the tree line. Unbearably so. Freezing inside, scorching out. There was no in between. And so, I was burned. My lips were chapped and blistered. My throat as dry as the sand under my ass.

My ass. I looked down at it now, thinking about it for the first time in days. It actually hurt from all the sitting. Maybe I'd go for a walk

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today. Yeah. I was tired of looking at this stretch of ocean. Maybe it looked different from the north. Sure it did. Why not? I got up, leaving my T-shirt on for some sun protection, and started to walk.

Huh. My legs actually worked. Even after five--no, six--days with no food, my muscles still worked. They were a little--whoa there-wobbly, but they worked. I walked along the beach, my feet crossing over each other as I stumbled alongtryingto keep balance, and looked around, feeling quite proud of myself.

I was still alive. Ha! Take that kidnappers. Still alive. Maybe it was my butt that was feeding me. I always thought it was kind of round. I bet my body was eating up all the fat stores from my butt now. Yeah. See, having a big ass is a good thing. Good, good, good. They should put that in magazines. Why diet? Why stay thin? If you ever get kidnapped and left for dead, your fat ass could save your life!

Tags: Kate Brian Private
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