“Turkey time,” he says as we buckle ourselves in and speed away, leaving Ricky and Rigo to their much-needed rest, just as the Reverend wanted. This began with a request from a dead man and it ends with a request from a dead man. I’ll keep the urn as a reminder of what it cost to get Ricky and me home. Ricky didn’t live on Bill’s terms and I won’t live on my mom’s. I block her number, and for the first time—more than when we captured Bill, more than when we set sail on the boat home—I truly feel like I’ve escaped Nightlight.

But Nightlight has not escaped me.

I swipe over to Instagram and find the viral post of the eleven of us escaping the island. With vice-like concentration, I hold my breath and scroll to one of the comments I’ve left unanswered. I’ve told no one—not Agent Elms, not Marcos, not Evelyn, not any of the campers—of what I found waiting for me in the comments last week. I couldn’t, not until I knew how I was going to respond. It’s not a comment from my mother; it’s from a person with even darker intentions.

Semriss Mann reads the name of the AVI-less account. Their comment is written in impenetrable Russian—Cyrillic, to be exact. It only took me a day to work out the anagram: Semriss Mann.

Miss Manners.

Ramona Hayward, Miss Manners, whatever her name is, is part of Nightlight Management. This is the second time Semriss Mann has taunted me on social media. Last month, I was DM’d a blurry screenshot of a signpost along a cement wall in some unknown frozen tundra. The sign, also written in Cyrillic, bore an inscription identical to the Instagram comment. I ignored the DM because I get dozens of random, foreign language messages every day, but when this message repeated, I couldn’t help but investigate. As soon as I translated the message, I understood. The thing I’ve always dreaded, the thing I should’ve expected, is now confirmed reality:

“Surrender your sins.”

Miss Manners sent me a photo of this exact message written on a snow-covered wall somewhere in Eastern Europe. There are other Nightlight camps. With kids just like me, like Marcos, like Molly, like Drew, like Ricky, like all of us, right now…trapped.