She’d be cold when she got out. For that matter, so would Mara, if Lenny put her in the lake next. She added new wood to the fire, a thick branch, and broke sticks in pieces to add them, too. Soon the flames rose, the breath of it hot on her skin.

By the time Ashley came back, the fire was roaring, and she knelt down beside it. “Thank you,” she said, and Mara felt too warm. She backed up a few steps.

Anyway, it turned out Lenny didn’t want Mara in the lake. He asked her to stand simply, one hand to her chest, and gaze at the horizon. In five minutes she was done.

By evening, Bullfrog had the frame of a lean-to built: two tripods made of thin birch trunks, with a beam set between them, and smaller poles laid against one side for shade. It would not hold warmth yet, or stop rain, but the structure itself was comforting. The survivors sat in a row beneath it, beside the fire. They had all gathered firewood, and the pile of branches beside them was comforting, too.

Mara boiled sumac shoots with nettle leaves to make a watery soup, which would have been well served by the additions of salt and heavy cream. It was bitter, and some of the greens turned mucosal in the heat. Still, she and her teammates passed the pot, taking swigs and scooping wet leaves with their fingers. When the soup cooled, Mara placed it back on the coals, and the flavor improved upon reheating. Even by firelight the broth shone green.

Mara felt okay. Hungry, but she’d be hungrier soon, and grateful the gnats were lethargic. The sun was stronger than at home, and her cheeks felt puffy and raw. Sunburn. Foolish not to anticipate. Maybe she could find something, mud or ashes, to shield her skin tomorrow.

She expected to sleep better that night, with the frame of the shelter and, more importantly, a sense of her surroundings. But she woke, freezing, to movement. James beside her, sitting bolt upright. The whites of his eyes shone in the firelight.

“Did you hear that?” he said.

Mara had heard any number of sounds since dusk. Twigs and wind, buzzing insects. The yips of coyotes from three directions. Splashes from the lake. She listened awhile, but heard nothing new. In fact it was oddly quiet.

“It’s just the woods,” she said. “Go back to sleep.”

But James didn’t move.

“There it is,” he said. “I heard it again.”

Sometimes people freaked out at Primal Instinct. Positive they’d heard footsteps or voices. Often they had. There were always things in the night. Approaching, watching, slipping away. Mara took rustles for granted. The woods were someone else’s house. People weren’t guests; they were intruders.

“I don’t like this,” said James.

“I think we’re fine.”

“You don’t know that. You don’t know what happens when you’re asleep.”

“If I’m asleep,” she said, “it doesn’t matter.”

“I disagree.”