"We can't...we can't panic. Not yet." Tom looked around at the site, all the familiar bags, canteens, that fucking sweater that Tom hasn't seen Mike in for months. He reached out, running his hand down the oily surface of hemlock tree beside him.

"The Island plays games," he said to Mike, dropping to pull one of their packs in to his lap. Dried meat, some water, a handful of shotgun shells. On the island, commerce was carried out through volunteer hours. Here it was fucking bullets.

And it all made perfect, god damned sense.

He watched Neil's slim frame disappear off to the car, something pulling hard and sharp in his stomach.

"He's here," he said, looking up at Mike from a crouching position. "That has to mean something."

Tom swallowed, starting to roll up the bedrolls. It had to...