“We’ll die of dehydration. It will be slow and painful,” Walton answered. He sounded very calm about it.

Tom scanned the horizon for pirates or Nazis or anything, but no one came and attacked them. What was holding up Yosef’s group?

When Snowden appeared in the life raft again to check on them, they were ready. They all turned on him and demanded an explanation for the scenario.

Snowden nodded pleasantly. “It’s a survival scenario. You win if you survive.”

Tom gaped at him. “Wait, that’s it?”

“That’s it. You’re fighting the most dreadful enemy of all here. Impatience. Ooh, is that water? I’m parched.” And then he did the unthinkable—Snowden plucked the canteen from Walton and swigged down the last of their water.

They all sat there, watching his Adam’s apple bob. Disbelieving rage surged through Tom. Snowden had just arrived. He couldn’t possibly be as thirsty as them, but he drank their water!

Marrion Trout couldn’t take it anymore. The slight, black-haired girl declared that she was bored and “totally over this,” then she threw herself overboard. For a few minutes, she treaded water, working up the courage to drown herself even though the pain receptors were on. And then fins cut through the water, and Yosef’s group finally revealed themselves by tearing her apart.

“Impatience?” Walton pointed to the blood blossoming in the water. “Sure it’s not about sharks?”

“Oh. Yes,” Snowden said. “It’s about surviving the sharks, too. Actually, it’s mainly about the sharks. Good luck!” And then with a wiggle of his fingers, he disappeared again, leaving them with an empty canteen and a whole bunch of ravenous sharks.

Three days dragged by in scenario time. They grew desperate with thirst, terribly sunburned, and achingly hungry. They’d managed to splinter the wooden oar into a makeshift spear, but as soon as they killed the first of Yosef’s group, the sharks began steering clear—waiting for the humans to break down and come to them.

Walton gave up during the night and gulped a bunch of seawater.

Tom woke up to the sound of Walton’s frantic slurps. “This is not going to end well for you, man.” Tom’s voice was so scratchy he barely recognized it.

Walton nodded, his mouth dripping with seawater. “It’s very salty.”

Vik shivered where he was sprawled out next to Tom in the raft. They all had oozing boils on their skin from exposure and saltwater, but one of Vik’s had become infected, and the telltale red marks of blood poisoning were creeping up his limbs.

Tom was completely restless. He wanted to do something other than fantasize about tall glasses of water and hamburgers. He tried to figure out what this scenario was testing. Reactions under pressure? Under intolerable thirst and boredom? What?