My tongue, dry and spongy, scrapes against the roof of my mouth in the hopes of finding some moisture to suckle on. No luck. The afternoon heat has dug itself under my skin and sapped me as dry as an autumn leaf. If I really need water, I could peel off my shirt and wring out my own sweat, but I think I’ll wait until I’m a bit more desperate. The night we arrived—last night; God, it’s only been a day—Briggs warned us not to wander off the Coral Road. He said we’d die of thirst.

The Reverend might get his wish after all. Unlike Drew, it wouldn’t even be murder.

The longer I spend in these woods, the less I care about who killed Ricky or how to shut down Nightlight. Those concerns evaporate with each passing, thirsty second, leaving behind only my most immediate concerns about surviving the night. Thunderstorms have been building for a while, but every rumble of thunder is nothing but a tease that fresh water might descend and rescue me. Although, I doubt any rain could penetrate this thick canopy, even if it did fall.

“ARIO!” a voice echoes faintly through the jungle. At the sound of my boyfriend’s name, I grasp the recorder squished under my matted shirt. Ario? Here? I’m hallucinating. The dehydration is worse than I thought; my brain has mercifully chosen to materialize Ario and his lovely, curly hair one last time before I collapse dead. “ARIO!” the deep voice calls again, closer.

Walls of rustling, eight-foot-high shrubbery surround me. The voice could be anywhere. “Who’s…there?” I ask, ragged and squeaking. An agonizing thought arrives too late: Miss Manners knows my boyfriend’s name from when she made me delete his pictures.

It’s a trap.

“Connor?” the voice returns from behind a knotted shroud. The greenery separates, and a gentle, hulking angel emerges: Marcos. His hair plastered to his forehead, Marcos’s baby blue Nightlight tee runs midnight black where it hugs his shoulders. “Connor!” He bounds toward me clutching the only sight more welcome than he is: a bottle of crystal clear water.

“Oh my God, are you okay?” I ask, greedily reaching for the water like a witch who’s spotted a pair of ruby slippers. “Can I have some?”

“Yes, it’s for you. I had mine already.” Whimpering happily, I strangle off the cap and commence guzzling—all my questions can wait until I’ve licked this bottle clean (questions like where Marcos found water and whether he’s a mirage). The bottle empties into a husk, and finally, the ground solidifies under my feet. “Better?” he asks.

“So much”—a belch of water interrupts—“better. I can’t believe you found me.”

“Yay.” Satisfied I’m no longer about to drop dead, Marcos allows his drained, painful expression to reemerge.

“Is Molly with you?”