I guess where Five leads us could charitably be described as an island. Really, it’s just a pile of mud in the middle of the swamp, the support system for one massive and gnarled tree that looks like it has been growing since the dawn of time. The tree’s roots are so huge and outstretched that Nine has to drive the boat up cautiously, not wanting to get stuck on any of them. We climb out of the boat, our feet squishing through mud and slipping across the uneven protrusions of the tree. There’s a ring of tall grass growing from the water around us and the tree’s branches above are so numerous and thick that the entire little island is thrown into shadow almost as soon as you step onto it. It’s actually almost ten degrees cooler here than it was on the water.

“This is actually a pretty great spot,” I tell Five.

Five’s chest puffs out a little at the rare compliment. “Yeah. I camped here one night. This old tree is amazing. Figured I wouldn’t have any problems finding it again.”

“Congratulations,” grumbles Nine, swatting at a bug on his neck. “So where’s your damn Chest?”

Five leads us right to the base of the tree. Under our feet is a complicated lattice of roots; it’s like the tree is a fist plunged into the earth and the roots are its fingers, mud squeezing out from in between the tree’s tight grasp. Five kneels down under a knot of roots, a place where they’ve bunched up a bit, almost like a knuckle. He reaches underneath the roots where a soft pocket of mud waits.

“It’s under here,” Five says, feeling around. “Almost got it.”

The mud makes a wet sucking noise when Five pulls the Chest free, as if it’s reluctant to give up our prize. Five kneels in front of it, wiping muck off the familiar wooden surface.

Eight taps on my shoulder and points to a place where the tall grass is parting. I can see the flat head and yellow eyes of an alligator, maybe the same one as before. “Looks like someone’s hungry,” Eight jokes.

“Is he following us?” I ask, partly kidding around, but also a little creeped out. I inch closer to Eight.

“Lots of gators down here,” says Five absently, hefting his Chest up.

“You talk to animals, don’t you?” I ask Nine. “Tell that beast we don’t want any trouble.”

“Maybe I’ll keep it as a pet. Or make a sweet-ass coat out of it,” Nine replies, squinting as he focuses on the approaching animal. Something in his face suddenly changes. “Hold up—”