“I thought we didn’t have any time,” he says, waving his hands like windshield wipers. My rudeness is the last thing on his mind, apparently. We get to work; Molly continuing her climb, and Marcos and I kneeling beside the camper who warned us—however reluctantly—that there was danger in our midst. Now he’s dead. I saw him jump with my own eyes, but something intangible won’t stop dragging my mind into a dark pit whenever I replay the moment:

He leapt. He swung. But first, he screamed for Briggs.

My hands float over Drew’s body like a planchette over a Ouija board, hoping his ghost will guide me toward whatever it is I believe I’m supposed to find—something that points to Ricky’s killer. Marcos hovers over Drew’s face and does something the Reverend should have: with a lightly tremoring hand, he marks a blessing of the cross and then quietly whispers an unintelligible prayer to his lost friend. I’m breathless watching Marcos perform this kindness, the first churchy thing on this island that hasn’t given me the creeps. Once finished, he whispers to the body, voice shaking from tears: “It was so kind of you to visit me in my loneliness.”

His aloha. Both a greeting and parting words. Drew really feels gone now.

When my fingertips make contact with Drew’s arm, I shudder. You could chill a pop can on him, even in this swelter. This vaguely refreshing coolness curdles as another inconvenient thought tugs at me: “He’s really cold.”

“Well, he’s dead,” Marcos says, a worry line permanently etched into his brow.

“Yeah…” I stuff away the nagging thought for later, and Marcos searches Drew’s body, charging ahead into the icky job at hand like the biology lab partner everyone wants. He rifles through Drew’s pockets, finding nothing in the first; but in the second, he retrieves a small, folded magazine. Its splashy, school-bus yellow cover instantly registers with me: “Another Playbill.”

Absolutely no way.

“Like your first message.” Marcos nods, handing it over. The pages are crisp and brittle under my fingers, so I keep a light touch. Drew’s Playbill is less vibrant than the one for South Pacific—this cover design is faded black-and-white, with curling tree branches forming the show’s title: Into the Woods. A memory of warm, familiar music dances between my chaotic thoughts:

The Witch, singing to her daughter Rapunzel, begging her to stay with her and be afraid of the world outside their little home.