She flew into Mara’s arms, the fish wet and flailing between them, and it was only when Mara let go at last that she saw that the crew had arrived. She didn’t know when they had come. She’d never looked up to notice.

Kyle wanted to boil the perch so that no nutrients would be lost. He said they could drink the water afterward for vitamins, and that they should eat the bones if they could. Bullfrog said sure, that might be technically correct, but it sounded disgusting. The fish would taste better grilled, and after worms they all deserved something good. “Not that the worms weren’t good,” said Bullfrog, and then he corrected himself. “Fuck. No. No, they weren’t good. They were terrible.”

In the end the men compromised. They would grill the fish above the upside-down pot lid, so that any fat or juices that dripped off would be caught. Mara and Ashley could have weighed in, but neither particularly cared, and Mara found the whole conversation amusing. Pretty much anything would have amused her at that point, short of losing the fish themselves.

Bullfrog fashioned a grate of woven sticks and balanced it on the pot lid, which he placed on a mound of hot coals. The fish he gutted and cut into chunks, scales and heads and all. Their flesh was translucent, almost pearly, but as it cooked it turned white. It smelled mild and sweet. The survivors broke the chunks apart and ate their first bites together.

The taste was more than delicious; it was ecstatic. Thick, oily flakes breaking in Mara’s mouth. Tender and rich and overwhelming. She had the strange and distinct feeling that she could taste it with her whole body. The energy from the fish flowing from her mouth into her blood, into her arms and legs, strengthening them by the second. An actual tingling in her limbs, as her muscles recognized the meat.

Mara ate more. She wished they had salt. Or breading and tartar sauce, a squeeze of lemon, fried potatoes in a greasy mound. She pictured the whole feast, and then the image faded, and there were chunks of fish on squares of bark, fish flaking, filling her mouth, sliding down her throat. For the first time in weeks, the survivors could eat their fill.

Within a few bites, Mara was no longer hungry. A few bites after that she felt stuffed and exhausted, as if a heavy weight pulled her eyelids down. But she kept eating, kept chewing, and she could tell by the others’ sudden lethargy that they were doing the same. Forcing the fuel in. As much as they could take.

Later, looking back, Mara couldn’t recall if the crew acted strange that day, or if it was only in retrospect that she interrogated their behavior. There were just three camera guys, Tom and two others, standing around. Didn’t there used to be more? A blond one? The survivors ate fish around the fire outside, and the crew and their cameras watched in silence and left at intervals to conference in the trees. That seemed normal enough, although maybe they conferenced more often than usual, or for longer periods of time. She didn’t know. Maybe the survivors’ meal was boring to film, eventually. A shift from bliss to diligent chewing, and the bubbling sound of stomachs unused to being full.