On the lakeshore Mara saw movement, another cluster of men in pants and windbreakers, and just past them, in a clearing, two figures dressed in brown outfits like hers. One of them shaded their eyes and waved. The other crouched. Mara couldn’t tell what they were doing. She waited for the helicopter to fly to the clearing, but it hovered in the air. The wind whipped rings in the water below.

“You have to open your door,” said the pilot. She was shouting for the noise, but she said it as casually as one might of a parked car.

“My door?”

The pilot gestured roughly. “Make sure you jump out, not up. If you want to keep your head.”

Then Mara understood. The show had begun. She was expected to fall from the helicopter into the lake. She was expected to swim to shore.

She recognized that this was clever of the producer. It would make for a great entrance. She might cry or freeze; already she felt her chest tightening. But beyond the obvious dramatic footage—survivors flinging themselves from the sky—jumping into the lake would up the stakes immediately. They were somewhere north, maybe even boreal, and the night would be cold enough without soaked clothing. Already it was late afternoon. The moment she hit the water, she’d start edging toward hypothermia, and stay at risk until she managed to dry her clothes.

If she thought about the jump, if she prepared for it, she would panic. She unclipped her seat belt, opened the door, and fell.

4

A wailing sound; a wall of sound. And then the punch of frigid water. It slammed the air from Mara’s lungs. She sank deep, peaceful into the darkness, until her chest burned, and then in a few strokes she broke the surface. She gasped harder than she intended. Glad that the cameras weren’t close.

Already the helicopter had lifted away, and the water, whipped into swells, was starting to calm. Mara spotted land and swam toward it, kicking until her toes touched reeds. A few more kicks and she pulled herself onto the shore. The air was cold, but the muck at the water’s edge was warmed slightly from the sun.

Just six weeks and she’d be free.

Mara looked up. Sure enough, two cameramen stood above her. She crawled up the muddy bank, trying to act natural, and stumbled when she rose to her feet. The ground was thick with dead leaves.

A tall man in a white visor stepped forward and shook her hand. Lenny. He squeezed hard. She heard the whirr of a camera zooming in.

“Mara,” he said. Smooth and deep. “Welcome. You’ll meet your teammates shortly. I know you must be eager to get started. But first you have to make a decision.”

He led her to a collection of tools and objects, arranged on a cowhide on the grass.

“Think carefully about what you’re here for. What you’ll need. What you’re leaving behind. You can pick one thing to help you on your path.”