We’re traveling down what is basically a road in the water, a place where the dense saw grass and trees that sprout up on either side of us part to allow boat traffic. Not that there’s anyone else out here—we haven’t seen a single human being since picking up our boat from the rental place an hour ago. Even that was just a ramshackle cabin stuck between the end of a country road and the edge of the swamp. We had our pick of three rusted fan boats lashed to the rickety dock. The solitary man living out there, sunburned and smelling like a combination of alcohol and jet fuel, hiccupped his way through a tutorial on boat operation before accepting some cash in exchange for a dog-eared map of the area and the keys to the boat. He didn’t ask any questions, which we were all thankful for.

It’s the local man’s map that Six is concerning herself with. She’s comparing it to the map of the Everglades that we printed off the internet, the one Five marked with the location of his Chest. She keeps switching between our map and the smudged but more detailed map of local tributaries and bayou backwaters. She holds the papers away from her, annoyed. “I can’t make sense of this,” she grumbles.

“Don’t worry about it,” Nine replies, steering us forward, towards the sunset. “Five said he knows where we’re going. Let him be useful for a change.”

I glance to the sky, looking for Five. He flew off about fifteen minutes ago, claiming he could better find his Chest from above. The edge of the sky is starting to turn a shade of pink that I’d normally find beautiful, but out here seems somehow ominous.

“I don’t mean to sound like a chicken,” I say warily, pushing a wet strand of hair behind my ear, “but I seriously don’t want to be out here after the sun sets.”

“Me neither,” adds Eight, flicking the map in Six’s hands. “Especially if our esteemed navigator doesn’t know how to get us back to civilization.”

Six narrows her eyes at Eight but doesn’t reply. Nine just laughs. Huge sweat stains darken his shirt and bugs buzz around him incessantly, but he doesn’t seem to notice. In fact, Nine seems to be enjoying this—the humidity, the stickiness, the sense of danger. It’s his natural element. “I was thinking we might go camping after,” he says.

Eight and I groan. If there weren’t alligators drifting around in the water beneath us, I’d definitely take this opportunity to splash Nine. I look to the skies again, keeping my eyes peeled for Five.