Kyle looked crestfallen, and Mara felt annoyed. He was too easy to discourage; this was the second time she had hurt his feelings by saying something obvious and true. She would have to watch her words, or risk looking rude on-screen, which would make it hard to be invisible.

“So,” said Ashley, saving her. “What are you all here for? I came to get famous. That’s the plan, at least.” It was so blunt that James laughed, which broke the tension. His laugh echoed in the trees.

Mara must have been more tired than she realized, or just relieved to be off the hook, because she drifted off to the three of them talking about fame and money and adventure. Only bits of the conversation stuck with her. How James ended his semester early, and his students made him cards, but he couldn’t talk about the show, so they thought he went on vacation to Guatemala. He planned to buy fake souvenirs online to show them in the fall.

There was something about Chris McCandless, that guy who died in the Alaskan wilds some decades back. How Kyle idolized him. Ashley’s laughter, sweet and deep. Something about bridges, and swimming. Something about a wife.

Mara woke at intervals, shivering, to feed the fire and rearrange herself on the dirt, but it was not the worst night she’d spent, and she surprised herself with sleep.

THE SONGBIRDS HAD BARELY STARTED HOLLERING AGAIN WHEN THE CREW CAME back single file, boots squelching in the dew, and started setting up: changing batteries in the static cameras, putting tripods in places where they thought the survivors might be interesting. They murmured together in short bursts, but Mara could not make out the words. She counted six crew members plus Lenny, all men, all wearing windbreakers. One of them, a blond guy, showed the survivors how to change the batteries in their mics. He hid a case of fresh batteries behind a log so they could do it themselves each morning.

The survivors couldn’t have slept much longer anyway. They were damp, and the firewood was spent. Bullfrog announced that he’d build a shelter and would rather not have help—bless him for saying that out loud, Mara thought—and so while the other three discussed water, she took the chance to slip into the woods.

She had spotted a creek from the air, west of the clearing, and she thought she might find horsetails there. Late spring was lousy for foraging, but there was always food if you knew where to look. Young shoots from plants that would be tough by June and bitter by July. Ramps and pine tips. Fiddleheads before they uncurled. The mossy ground was dry and coarse, almost spongelike. Green leaves poked through it like spears, and white flowers grew in such thick patches that they looked like dustings of snow. But last year’s dead beech leaves still clung to branches, fluttering, translucent. It gave the woods an odd effect, as if it were spring below and autumn above, as if the seasons rose from the earth in layers rather than descending from the sky.