After a few minutes, she announced to no one that she had to pee, stood from the fire, brushed the loosest ashes from her forearms, and walked casually into the woods. She found Tom by the birch grove, sitting on a log with the camera on his lap. He pressed a button on the camera and its light flickered off. Set it down on the ground, facing away. She switched off her mic. Now they were really alone.

“I wanted to check in,” he said. “While the others are gone. How are you?”

“Good, I guess. I got some sun.”

“It’s stronger here than folks realize.”

“I see that now.”

“I brought you something.”

“Oh,” said Mara. “Thank you.”

“But you can’t tell anyone. I could lose my job.”

“I won’t tell,” she said.

“I’m serious. No one can know.”

Mara looked around; there were no other cameras in the trees. She figured Tom wanted stakes to bring them together, a cause to make his life interesting. He was being so dramatic. She hoped he had something good.

“You can trust me,” she said, sitting down on the log beside him. Not close, but not far. “I won’t say a word. We would both get in trouble.”

Tom liked that. He pressed his fingers together, as if weighing the odds.

“You can trust me,” she repeated softly.

“I know I can,” he said. “I could tell that about you right away.”

He reached into his pocket and handed her a protein bar.

Mara’s mouth filled with water. She hadn’t eaten more than leaves in almost two days, and was hungrier than she wanted to admit. She wanted to be alone, to have privacy for the pleasure that eating would entail, but Tom didn’t leave. He took the bar from her—her heart fell—then tore the wrapper open and handed it back.

The flesh of the bar was dark brown, almost purple, made of some matte and hardened goo. The smell of peanuts. Mara bit off a corner with her teeth. As if on cue, her stomach rumbled.

Tom watched her chew.

Mara couldn’t decide whether to eat fast or slow, so she settled in the middle. Chewing big bites for too long, then swallowing in gulps, feeling them sink down her throat. In six bites, the bar was gone. Somehow she felt hungrier than before. She wanted another. She wanted fries and a hot ham sandwich.

Tom held out his hand, and Mara gave him back the wrapper. He folded it in a neat square and tucked it in his breast pocket.

“I can do this for you,” he said. “Maybe not every day. But I want you to stay strong.”

“Thank you,” said Mara, and meant it. Hunger, even two days’ hunger, brought its own humility. If being Tom’s project meant extra food, it was humility she could live with.

When Tom left, she didn’t go back to camp right away. She could hear Kyle and Bullfrog arguing in the distance. Something about shelter; the louder voice was Kyle’s. Anyway, they might smell the peanuts on her breath. She decided instead to explore.