Now her head did go under. Water gushed into her ears, her nose, but at least she’d kept her mouth closed this time. When she burst back through the surface, she crawled, moaning, toward the bank, grabbing at tall grasses, roots, anything she could reach, until she was up on dry ground.

Rosa flopped onto her stomach, her eyes burning with tears. Then she sat up. Her clothes clung uncomfortably to her thin frame. And she stank like a toilet. Worse than a toilet. It reminded her of the smell when her big brother Miguel found the dead rat in the wall of their house, and told Rosa to take it out to the street.

Miguel. He was going to murder her. He was already mad at her for walking too slow when they got to the island and went looking for a spot to make camp. Then he got even madder because he wanted to kiss his girlfriend, but he couldn’t do that with Rosa around. That’s why he told Rosa to go do something. Rosa didn’t want to at first. The island scared her with all of the dolls hanging from the trees or sitting on the ground, just staring at her with their painted faces and glass eyes. However, you didn’t say “no” to Miguel, not unless you wanted to get a slap across your head, and so Rosa went, not planning to go far…and then she saw the pond. At first she wanted to muck around in the water a bit. She didn’t know there would be bullfrogs. But there sure were; they were everywhere. She spotted three right away. Yet she wasn’t careful then, and they all hopped off their lily pads and vanished beneath the water before she got close enough to catch one. It took her another fifteen minutes before she found the big fatty.

And now it was gone too, and she was dripping wet, and Miguel was going to call her names and slap her across the head—

A scream shattered the quiet.

Rosa jerked her head about.

That had been her brother’s girlfriend, Lucinda.

Did Miguel jump out from somewhere and scare her, as he always liked to do to Rosa? Or did one of the dolls hanging from the trees come to life and attack her? That’s what Miguel kept telling Rosa: the dolls were alive but they were just sleeping, and when you weren’t looking they would—

Another scream.

Not Lucinda. Deeper, male.

Miguel?

Rosa didn’t know, because she’d never heard her brother scream before, or at least not for years. Miguel wasn’t afraid of anything.

Rosa got to her feet, her soaked clothes forgotten.