The Island

7. Thirst

Jordyn

After we've done all the throwing up that our bodies can handle, Sam lays out on the sand at the edge of the shade. Shadows cover his face, but his legs and waist dangle out into the sunlight. I crouch by his head, clutching my stomach.

"How were we supposed to know the fish were toxic?" he moans with his eyes half closed. Brown chunks cling to the front of his jumpsuit, and cracks snake across the surface of his dry lips. He slicked his hair against his head with salt water a few minutes ago, and now, it sticks up like a flagpole.

"We should have known," I mutter, almost too afraid to talk. I don't want to throw up again. My throat still burns from the seven other times I did. "Everything on The Island is trying to kill us."

Sam groans again but looks over at me with soft eyes.

"What do you remember about The Island?" he asks.

I take a deep breath and let myself fall back into the sand.

I've thought about asking him the same question, but it seems rude and intrusive. We remember different things, and I linger over the possibility that we could help each other with our memories.

Yet, they are precious and rare things, snow in the middle of this searing July and speckled fawn in the middle of a meadow. I hold them against my chest with greedy fingers. If I share my memories with him, they aren't mine anymore. They're ours, and I don't think I'm ready for that just yet. Not until I finish unravelling the fishnet that is my train of thought.

So far, I remember a house, white with a wooden porch and a white porch swing, a city that touches the sky with gray fingers, a man with red hair like mine,  someone screaming for me, and fire - overwhelming and murderous fire.

Yet, I know very little about The Island itself, and those don't feel like personal memories. What would it hurt to share?

"That it's designed to kill us," I say, picking at my fraying jumpsuit leg. "There's more than one prison like this, but we were put here because this is the most fearful habitat for us."

Sam thinks for a minute, opens his mouth to say something, and shuts it again. Wrinkles form on his forehead as he thinks, and his lips turn down towards his chin.

"What do you remember about it?" I prod.

"It's kinda fuzzy," he whispers and rubs his cheek, "but I think we're placed in two at a time at regular intervals. Like, you and I were put in together, and then, in a few days, two more people will show up."

"Like a drop off of prisoners?"

"Yeah. I'm not sure how that works, though."

My mind cranks a million times per minute. I wonder if the dome above our heads would open up, if a helicopter would lower two fresh bodies into the jungle. Was that how I was dropped off?

Not only am I curious about how the delivery works, I also know that the fact that someone is coming means there's a door in. If there's a way in, that means there's a way out. The possibility of escaping kindles like a pilot flame in my chest. Now, I have a reason to survive until the next two convicts arrive.

"What are you smilin' about?" Sam asks.

"Nothing," I say.

"Whatever," he says after a long scowling silence. "We both know what those hexagons in the ceiling are."

"Yeah, the dome."

"So, absolutely everything in here is fake."

"Down to this sand," I agree.