“Just one?” said Mara.

“Hold on,” said a crew member. He stepped forward and clipped a microphone to Mara’s collar, feeding the cord through her wet tunic, and tucked the battery pack into a pocket in her shorts. Careful not to touch her skin. He stepped back. “Okay, say it again.”

“Just one?” said Mara, stiffly.

“That’s right,” said Lenny. “Take your pick.”

Mara took stock of the options. An axe, a roll of fishing line, a pot with a lid. A dark-handled knife in a leather sheath. A case of waterproof matches. A sleeping bag. A lighter. A large jar of peanut butter. A King James Bible. A phone. A tiny bottle of iodine. A fat brown envelope labeled $10,000.

Mara traced her fingers over the sleeping bag, trying not to drip on it. It was small, a summer-weight mummy. Polyester. The phone was obviously a symbol. It was worthless without power or reception.

“The money,” she said. “If I take it, what then?”

Lenny smiled. “Whatever you pick is yours to keep.”

So this was a test. And a good one. Ten thousand dollars was far more than she’d ever had at once.

It was a matter of confidence, Mara supposed. A gamble: she could pick something that would help her last six weeks in the woods, bring her closer to the real prize money, or she could hedge her bets now. What could she buy with ten grand? A better used car; enough gas to drive far away. But then what? She’d run out eventually. She’d need another job. The envelope was unsealed, and she opened the flap with her thumb, revealing a stack of hundreds. Green and crisp. Her heart beat faster.

She put down the envelope and picked up the knife. It felt good in her hand, cool and smooth. The back of the blade was serrated for sawing. The handle was inlaid with ebony. An artist’s work.

“What did the others pick?” she asked.

“This is about you,” said Lenny. “It’s about your instincts.”

“So you won’t tell me.”

“Their choices shouldn’t affect yours,” he said, and she felt insulted by the lie. Not that he told it, but that she had to accept it.

Money wouldn’t keep her warm and fed. She’d come to make it to the end.

Mara unsheathed the knife and slid the blade up her forearm, watching brown hairs fall loose. She wished she could pick the sleeping bag. And the fishing line, the matches, something to purify water—either the iodine or the pot. They’d need food, fire. A knife would only get her partway there, but what could she really do without one?

Besides. She liked it.

“I’ve chosen,” she said. “I’m ready to meet the others.”

But when Lenny led her across the clearing, toward where two men knelt in the dead grass, her heart sank. Because one of them had a machete, which was redundant; how many blades did they need, as a team? And the other held a goddamn bow drill. They were dressed like she was and only slightly less drenched, huddled around a pile of sticks.