I used to laugh at survival shows. People crawling through mud, making fire with sticks, crying over bugs. I thought I’d never be like that. But here I am—Bailey Morgan, queen of shopping malls and the school hierarchy—sitting in the dirt like some… castaway. My hair is a salty, tangled mess. My nails are broken. My skin’s blistered. And I’d trade every designer handbag I ever owned for a hot shower.

At least I have the shelter. If you can call it that. Some crooked sticks lashed together with seaweed, half a palm leaf roof that leaks when it rains. But it’s mine. And the fire—God, it took me days. I cried so hard when it finally caught, like I’d just been crowned prom queen again. It smokes and sputters, but it keeps me warm at night. Keeps the dark from swallowing me whole.

I don’t even know how long it’s been. Weeks? Months? I talk to myself now, just to hear a voice. I think I’m going crazy.

And then I see it.

A body.

At first I think my mind’s made it up again. I blink, rub at my eyes, but no—it’s real. Someone, washed ashore, tangled in the tide. My heart lurches so hard I nearly collapse. Another person. Please, please, please don’t be dead.

I stumble down the sand, my legs shaking. My throat’s so tight I can’t breathe. I crouch, trembling fingers reaching out, and I poke her arm. Nothing. My chest caves in.

“No, no, no…” My voice breaks, sharp and desperate.

She looks… young? My age?

I poke again, harder this time. “Please don’t be dead. Please—”

And then, she stirs. A gasp, a twitch, a flicker of life. I stumble back, choking on a sob. She’s alive. She’s alive.

For the first time since the storm, I’m not alone.