She was at the trees now. From here the path snaked around the edge of the lake, then led down some steep steps cut into the rock to the sea. Off to the right were the dormitory cabins. She wondered if she might be safer there.

She reached into her pack, slid out her telephone and the key to the boat. Then she thought again. She held the pack around the ammunition box, shook her possessions onto the side of the path.

Pain rooted her to the spot. She forced herself to breathe through it. She found the ziplock bag with her toothbrush and soap in it, tipped them out of the bag. She dropped in her telephone and the boat key, sealed the bag, dropped it into her backpack.

It bothered her that she couldn’t find a wound on her front. She knew—perhaps she had read—that it was best if the bullet passes right through you. When she reached her hand around to the entry wound it was small. The wound itself didn’t hurt a lot, but every time she moved her shoulder nerves shrieked and her jaw clenched shut; it was all she could do not to sit rocking in pain. Still, not having an exit wound on her chest meant she could draw the straps of her backpack tight.

This had to be survivable. There were two hundred young people on the island. Plus a few adults. Those men couldn’t kill every last one of them. If she could make it down to the water, perhaps she could swim along the shoreline to the dock.

How many people would the boat carry? Eight, she guessed, easy. Maybe ten or twelve. Maybe more.

“Do not be alarmed.”

The voice was chillingly close. She pushed her clothes from the backpack under a bush.

“There has been an incident on the island.”

She held her pack in her arms, threw herself into the trees, not thinking about her shoulder. The underbrush was dense here; she could not get more than a few meters in.

“You may have heard shots. We have the situation under control. Be assured that you are safe. Please approach my colleague and me for assistance and further information.”

She heard the approach of footsteps. She saw a shadow on the path in front of her, saw it turn this way, then the other. She crouched down, forced herself to slow her breathing.

Hold out, she thought. You have to hold out.

A second shadow followed the first. A single muttered word.

The shadows moved off toward the cabins.

A hand reached for hers in the gloom. It took all her strength to keep from crying out. A boy. A tiny little boy.

In truth, she realized, he couldn’t be much younger than she was. Her sister’s age, maybe. Thirteen, but small. His skin glowed dully. His eyes were wet.

“De er ikke politi,” he said. Not the police.