I press forward, my breathing heavy, raindrops sinking on to my tongue from the corners of my parted mouth.

I walk. I’m soaked now for the second time today, through to my bones. I can’t believe I miss the heat of the last two weeks, the glare of the sun, the trickle of sweat down my breastbone. I walk. My calves scream, the incline unrelenting. My back aches. I want to curl myself around a tree to stretch my throbbing muscles, but I need to keep going. I walk. There’s an enormous difference, I’m learning, between almost pitch-black and pitch-black. I have no peripheral vision, no concept of shapes; I can see nothing more than what’s revealed within the glow of my flashlight.

I walk. I’m afraid.

God, I’m afraid. When I cast the spotlight on the thought for any moment too long my whole body revolts so I shove it away. Instead of my utter aloneness there is the crunch of my feet against the ground and how the ground feels solid and how my body is a machine and how I could do this forever. Not what’s lurking outside my flashlight’s glow. Not what unfeeling torrent has opened above me.

My throat is hoarse from calling his name but this doesn’t stop me from calling anyway. I count steps. Five and then ‘Ellis!’ then ten and ‘Ellis!’ but I can’t even hear myself, and I’m not sure if it’s because of the ferocious wail of the storm or I’ve run out of sound. Branches rear back like whips.

I can barely see.

I found the truth, most of the truth, but Booker was right. What do I even plan to do with it? Everyone else was right. Peyton was right – it’s a truth but a bitter and pointless one. My dad was right – I should never have come out here in the first place.

Celeste was right – I’m a worthless piece of shit.

A voice.

‘Mona.’

I stop. The trees are looking at me.

‘Mona.’ Their leaves are all eyes; oh my God, there’s a million fucking eyes staring at me in the rain! I can see them blinking at me in the dark and I can’t –

‘Come on, Moaning Myrtle. I wanna see what’s over the edge …’

‘Please don’t …’

There’s something moving on my skin.

What is it? Don’t know. But there’s one and then a million and my whole body is crawling. The forest functions in billions. I’m six in the woods with piss on my shoes and blood on my palms. Celeste. Celeste. Why is Celeste talking to me? Not now, not now –

‘Moaning Myrtle,’ she said. ‘Guess what?’

‘What?’ I look down at small hands. Child’s hands.

‘Daddy’s busy. I’m gonna take you out hiking.’

‘Celeste, please.’

‘What’s the matter?’