Now, we each sit in the airport chairs, waiting for our various flights to be called. My flight leaves first and as the clock hands draw closer to my time, my anxiety grows. I can’t fathom being apart from them. After so much happening between us, I want to stay close, but I understand we all probably have business to attend to. I don’t know if Holly reported me missing, but for sure Keanu Leaves is nearly dead now. I need to water him. The others have their own responsibilities.

Rather than continuing to wear the clothing we came in on since they were torn and covered in blood, Row purchased each of us touristy clothes from the airport because that’s mostly all that’s available. I’m wearing a tank top with a rainbow silhouette of the Marshall Islands on it, sweatpants that say “Marshall Islands” across the ass, and a pair of cheap flipflops that cost four times the amount they’re worth. The others aren’t much better. Dressed in various tourist t-shirts and Hawaiian style shirts, we make a strange group where we sit. Jiro looks weird in the outfit, as if I can only imagine him in a suit and nothing more. Creed barely fits in his t-shirt, the material stretching across his chest and hanging on for dear life. Achilles and Row look like bums wearing oversized clothing. Achilles even wears a hoodie.

We sit in silence, all clustered together, me in the middle. At some point, I would have liked to have just merged together on the floor, held between them. Instead, we sit like proper people in the chairs while I scarf down a knock-off cheeseburger that tastes damn good after being on the island for so long. I’ll never take food for granted again. When I clean my hands and throw away my trash, I sit between them again.

“So . . . we just go back to our old lives?” I murmur, looking down at my hands in my lap.

“We try,” Creed answers. “It’s never easy returning to reality.”

Of the five of us, perhaps Creed knows better than most what it’s like to return home after a high adrenaline situation. He seems unconcerned and I wonder how many times he’s done this, how many times he’s returned to reality and been told to forget what happened.

How little we know about each other and yet, at the same time, we know everything.

They don’t know how I like my coffee, but each of them knows how to make me scream in pleasure. They don’t know my favorite color, but they know my mannerisms in a survival situation. I don’t know how Creed feels about the beach, but I know how good of a shot he is and what makes him smile. It’s a surreal realization, how little and how much we know.