Dharma, 1975

I wait until the last of the patrol makes their hourly rounds, and then I run towards the fence. It's a ways away from the houses, and I have to hide a few times to keep from being seen, but I eventually break free of the trees and run across the route I know doesn't have cameras.

It's so dark tonight, I almost don't see her.

Miss Collins is standing near one of the pylons, crouching down to type in the key code. After she's shut off the fence, she walks through the pylons and disappears into the jungle.

What is she doing out here?

The key code I'd stolen from security crumples in my hand, no longer needed. I stay hidden behind some brush for a while, and then I follow her as quietly as I can. I have no idea where I am. For a long time I worry I've completely lost her in the darkness, and then I see her among the trees and breathe a small sigh of relief.

I trail behind her for what seems like forever. Then, in the blink of an eye, she steps behind a tree and completely disappears. I hurry towards where I last saw her, but she's gone. All there is in the dark are bugs and birds.

"If you're going to follow someone, you should at least know where they're going."

I spin around and trip over my own feet in a mad dash to protect myself from the voice behind me. When I look up, I relax a little at the sight of Miss Collins.

"I'd ask you what you're doing out here," she whispers, "but I've honestly given up trying to lecture you. It's obvious you have a reckless disregard for your own safety." Miss Collins looks around. "Is Annie with you?"

"No, it's just me. I need to see Freyja," I try to explain. "I brought her an offering. I . . . I—" I thought I could make peace with the norsemen if I bring their god an offering I rescued from the recent shipment of exotic animals. If I prove to her some of us are good, then maybe she won't kill us all. I struggle to explain myself to Miss Collins and end up unstrapping my satchel and showing her a family of ferrets. "I stole them from the shipment headed to Hydra."

All the anger smoothes out of her face. "I see," Miss Collins whispers, nodding slowly. "Well, you're never going to find the norsemen by wandering around out here alone. Come on. Rules," she adds sharply and spins around to fix me with a serious expression. "Freyja is more dangerous than many of us could possibly hope to understand, and she's not in a particularly good mood lately, so you need to be on your best behavior. Do not speak unless spoken to. And under no circumstances are you to interrupt. And do not ever look at her face. Understand?"

I shake my head so hard it feels like it's going to flop right off my shoulders. We start walking again. "Miss Collins?" I whisper.

"Yes?"

"Why are you out here?"

"I'm a mediary," she answers. "A go-between. I speak the norsemen's language, so I think they inherently trust me more than the other hostiles."

I stop walking. "You're. . . a hostile?"

"Are you going to report me?" She turns and smiles but doesn't stop walking. Before I can answer, she says,"Quiet, now. We're almost there."

Everything smells of campfire smoke and worn leather. A few kids my age stop playing and stare at me as we enter their camp. A family of wolves snarl and wrestle in the dirt. A bearded man sharpens a knife. A woman is singing in a language I don't understand.

Miss Collins grabs my shoulder, and I snap back to attention. We're standing in front of large canvas tent.

"You remember the rules?" she asks. "Let me do all the talking."

Why did I come out here? Why did I think Freyja would be interested in listening to anything I have to say? What if she doesn't understand my intent? What if she gets angry that I have ferrets in my satchel?

"Ben?" Miss Collins soothes a hand across my shoulder. "I won't let anything happen to you. Just remember not to look at her."

I duck under a thick tent flap and step into a smokey space lit only by a few candles. As much as I try to fight it, my eyes go straight to the other side of the tent where Freyja sits on an intricately carved wooden throne. Her hair is a tangle of waves and loose braids all wrapped around a pair of antlers. Even though her eyes aren't glowing, I still can't really tell much about her face because it's entirely painted in lines and dots and patterns.

I shut my eyes tight and hope she didn't notice me looking. It's a cool night, but my entire body breaks out in a nervous sweat. Miss Collins whispers for me to kneel.

Freyja speaks first, but I don't know what she's saying. I don't even know who she's talking to because I'm so focused on looking at the dirt floor. Miss Collins replies and the two go back and forth. I wait for instructions.

"She wants to know why you're here," Miss Collins tells me.

I freeze, still bowing, still sweating, still staring at the ground. I open my mouth to explain, but my voice gets stuck in my throat. I know why I'm here, but I can't seem to formulate the words to explain myself. Would she even understand me if I did?

Miss Collins says something, and all the hairs on my arms stand on end as Freyja rises in a sudden whoosh of jewelry and bones and starts walking towards me. I shoot a panicked look at Miss Collins, and she mouths, "It's okay."

I can see her boots standing right in front of me, and I don't know what to do.

"Show her what you brought," Miss Collins whispers.

The ferrets squeak and squawk when I open the satchel and hold them out for Freyja to take. I feel her grab the bag and lift it out of my hands. I hear the ferrets squeak some more. Then Freyja starts laughing. I almost blackout when she leans down and pats the top of my head.

"She accepts your offering and thanks you for your effort." Miss Collins waits for Freyja to walk back to her throne—now throughly entertained by the playful ferrets—and then she pulls me up and hastily leads me out of the camp. "You did good, Ben." I start to smile at the praise until I realize she's being sarcastic. "I am eternally frustrated you can't seem to listen to a word I say about safety, but thank you for at least listening to my rules regarding Freyja so you don't get us both killed."

"I'm sorry. I just wanted to make sure she knows we're—" I remember how easily Freyja popped Ryan's head in the courtyard. "—not all like Ryan."

"Ben," she sounds tired. Miss Collins slows down to a complete stop and starts compulsively trying to flatten my cowlick. "Freyja is dangerous, but she has strict rules. Nothing is going to happen to anyone who doesn't deserve it."

"She killed Sammie's dad." I know she doesn't know, because nobody knows. He died just a few hours ago, and I only know about it because I just happened to be near the vans when I overheard LaFluer and Phil arguing quietly over whether or not they should tell anyone.

But instead of looking shocked at the news that the father of one of her students was just murdered, Miss Collins sighs. "Then I guess he must have done something unforgivable."

"But—"

"Ben, I have this under control," she assures me. "Okay? I promise."

As Ben finishes explaining, I feel my lips twitching with the beginnings of a nervous chuckle. I shove another cookie in my mouth. "It lasts how long?" It feels like my brain is turning into mush that will run out my ears. Breathy half-laughs shake out of me like an uncontrollable case of hiccups.

"Traditionally four days."

"And everyone from both islands are attending?"

Ben nods as if this is all no big deal. "It's incredibly rare," he adds, "but sometimes my people fall in love with your people and we have to contend with separate wedding parties—one here and one on Hydra, of which none of my people are ever invited. Usually, weddings here are relatively low-key, but this is—as you can imagine—a special circumstance, and your people are sailing in to have a joint celebration."

"They're sailing here?" I only chew the next cookie twice before swallowing and reaching for another. "All of them?"

"And as far as I know, those currently at the Temple on the mainland are making the hike here as well." Ben takes a cookie from the plate but doesn't eat it. "This one is especially guaranteed to be a large party. Your people are very fond of feasts—"

"No."

"Yes," he refutes with a hint of confusion. "I'm very certain they are fond of—"

"No," I interrupt and pause to fully let myself get a few good hardy chortles out of my system before taking a steading breath. "I'm done. With all of. . ." I wave my arms around. "This. I'm not marrying you. There's not going to be a big wedding. If anyone causes you problems, come tell me and I'll. . . scare them or something." Ben looks taken aback by my outburst, but Gail doesn't even flinch. "I want to go back to Hydra, Gail. When can we leave?"

"Cora," she says calmly, "I think you need to—"

I interrupt her, too. "Am I being kept prisoner here?"

"Of course not."

"Good," I answer forcefully. "Then I'd like to go back to Hydra. Now." Without waiting for her answer, I grab the last two cookies and push out of my chair.

Juliet lights up with surprise when I open the door. "Oh, excuse me."

I take a step back. She'd had one hand raised as if to knock, but I don't know who is more surprised by the weird timing of things. As if just now remembering who I am, Juliet hastily starts to bend forward.

"Please don't bow," I order.

"I'm sorry, Cora. Lady Cora," she apologizes and quickly rights herself, which only leaves me feeling more uncomfortable. "I'm still not entirely sure how to address you. Is this a good time?"

"A good time for what?" I cross my arms. "I'm leaving for Hydra."

"Would you mind if I took a quick blood sample before you go?"

A laugh huffs out of me. "No thanks. I hate needles."

"It would be over before you know it. I just need one vial."

Get out of my way! "I don't need a blood-test," I explain. "I just had a wellness check a month ago and I'm fine."

Juliet opens her mouth to respond, realizes what I've said, and looks confused. "No, it's for research. Ethan gave me some of your hair to test, but so far…" Her throat pulses as she swallows nervously. "We haven't noted any anomalies. You have remarkably normal hair."

I start laughing again out of frustration, and she smiles, but she misunderstands. I'm not laughing at her stupid remark about my hair, I'm laughing in response to growing impatient that she's not moving out of my way.

"If we can figure out what makes you. . . special," Juliet continues, "and we can isolate it, you could advance patient care by hundreds of years. You could save countless lives without making yourself sick all the time."

I'm in Hell. I'm in a nightmare I'll never wake out of. This is my life now. Never a moments peace. Never a moment alone. People are going to follow me around from dawn till dusk and ask me for favors until the day I croak for good. We need you to stop a war. We need you to talk to our animals. We need you to marry a random person you just met. We need you to donate parts of your body to science so we can study it. We need. We need. We need.

Nope. I don't have to do anything I don't want to anymore. And I definitely don't want someone jamming a needle in my veins.

I look up at Juliet and smile widely. "Get out of my way, please."

I don't get very far before Liv approaches.

"What," I whine as she and a horde of bodyguards walk towards me. What do you people want now?

Unlike most everyone else I've encountered since the holmgang, Liv doesn't look afraid of me—just apologetic for interrupting my walk. "Apologies, my lady, but these men have been very vocal about requesting an audience. They say it's vital."

"You're the healing god, right?" A survivor I've never seen before pulls down the collar of his shirt to show me his skin. "Hey," he exclaims when one of the men guarding me presses a knife to his chest. "Easy there, fella. I'm just showing her my injury. Look, I've had this really bad rash since the crash and I'm worried it might be something serious. Can you heal this? It's not infected, right?"

"Why do you get to see her first?" Another unknown survivor yells, "You've got a rash. My hand is practically split open! I deserve to see her first!"

Another chimes in, "Get in line. My leg's been infected for like two days, man. I need to see her now!"

The only person I recognize is Jin, but I cannot understand a word he's saying. Is he asking for Sun back? Have they not brought back the female survivors yet?

Someone sprained their ankle. Someone thinks they've sprained their ankle. Someone has a gash down the side of their face. Someone lost a fingernail. Someone has a bad case of acne. Someone has a cut here and there and everywhere—

I take a seat in the grass and chomp big bites of the last two cookies. I should have looked for the full bag in the cupboards. I should have pillaged the fridge. This is only making me more hungry.

A familiar calm flows through me, like I'm floating on a lake. All the yelling and bickering and passionate ranking of injuries fades away and is replaced with You Should Be Dancing but the Bee Gees.

"Cora? Can you tell me where you are?"

I blink. I'm sitting on a couch across from a woman sitting in a chair. All the noises from before have been cut short. We're the only two people in here. My cookies are gone. Did I eat them? "What—" I look around the room for some sort of indication that I've been here before, but I have no idea whose house I'm in. "Uh. . . where am I?"

"Do you not remember walking through my front door?"

I recognize this woman as Goodwin's wife, Harper. The more I remember about Goodwin's character, the more the very thought of him starts to agitate me. He had an affair with Juliet and just pretended like his wife didn't exist. Casted her aside the second someone else caught his eye, just like my own father did. I remember my friends would make jokes about Harper and laugh at the mole on her face, but I always pitied her. Personal bias, I guess.

"My name is Harper. I'm the resident therapist." Harper fixes me with a tense smile, but I can see the pen shaking in her trembling hand. "Gail brought you here a few minutes ago."

I'm trying so very hard not to stare at her mole. "She did? Where is she?"

"I'm right here."

I look over and wonder how the hell I didn't see Gail standing right next to the couch I'm sitting on. Thank goodness it's comfortable. Usually the seating in medical facilities are either rock hard or so plush you get swallowed alive by the fluff. This sofa is perfect. Not too soft, not too firm. If I were to own a couch, I would—

"This session will go smoothest if you are honest with me," Harper says. "Try to relax and don't overthink anything. Just tell me whatever comes to mind. Now, it's my understanding you just had a small altercation outside."

She must be referring to Erik, and I want to scream, What the hell about me almost killing a man qualifies as a "small altercation" to you?

Holy shit. What the hell is wrong with me. I almost killed someone. I almost killed Erik.

If Gail hadn't stopped me. . .

"You're thinking hard about something over there. Would you like to share?"

I shake my head. "No."

"What would you like to talk about?" Harper asks, smiling. Only, it's not really a smile. I can tell. My mother had mastered that art.

Immediately, my throat closes up at the memory of my mother. I wish I could see her right now. I just want to go home. "None of this is real," I whisper.

"What was that?"

"I said none of this is real."

Harper clicks her pen and begins writing. "What isn't real?"

"All of this. You. Gail. The island. This is all in my head."

"I'm not real? Hm." Harper continues scribbling notes. "I certainly feel real to me. What makes you think this is all in your head?"

"Because I've never met you before, but I know who you are." I can't seem to stop talking. It feels so good for this to not be a secret anymore. I'm not from here. I don't know how any of this works, but I know I'm from a place where this is all a fictitious world. The island is literally just Hawaii. "I know all about you and your cheating husband."

Harper's pen freezes midsentence. I watch her eyelids flutter before she looks up, but she doesn't interrupt me.

"I know Goodwin's cheating on you with Juliet. And I know why Juliet was brought here and. . . actually, I know most everything about everyone on this island. I even know how this is all going to end."

Instead of looking awestruck at my revelation, Harper simply nods. "Yes, I assume that's the biggest perk of being a god of foresight."

I catch myself before saying I'm not a god because I don't want to have to deal with a million more questions or some kind of prescription for an anti-psychotic. Instead, I stay silent.

Harper flips through the papers on her clipboard. "How are you acclimating to being back on Earth? I'm sure it's been a difficult adjustment for you."

I snort.

"Is there any part of this experience that is particularly frustrating?"

I snort again.

"I'm afraid we're not going to make any progress unless you use your words."

"You're asking me if I'm frustrated?" I lean forward and feel Gail's hand on my shoulder, but I shrug her off. Not even she can help calm me down. "Frustrated about what, Harper? Not knowing where I am? Not knowing where my family is? Being targeted by assassins? Being threatened with an arranged marriage? Never fully being alone? Not having showered in days? Look at my dress, Harper! I'M COMPLETELY COVERED IN MUD!"

Harper struggles to keep a blank expression, but her wavering voice gives away her fear. "All very valid points."

"And now I have Juliet on my back? Asking for blood samples? Like I'm some kind of science experiment?! Telling me all this as if I don't have the option to say get away from me? And the survivors—"

I'm standing. When did I stand?

I note Harper's fearful wide-eyed expression as she melts against her seat until she's practically the chair itself. It's the same terror I saw in Alex after I threw Erik. But instead of feeding the rush of power from before, her fear drains my rage and makes it easier to calm down. In a single second, my chest tightens with tears.

"I'm sorry, Harper." I sit back down as my face warms with shame. "I didn't mean to yell. I'm. . . I'm being asked to accept a lot of things that just don't make any sense to me and. . . this is all way too. . . overwhelming. I'm very sorry."

"This is helpful for me to hear," she practically whispers. I hear her pen click. She clears her throat. "Tell me what you're experiencing."

I lean back into the plush sofa and blink back tears. "I just feel. . . I don't know? Like I can't process emotion anymore. It's like my brain's malfunctioning or something. I'm in a constant battle not to snap at people. Honestly, I think that's what's most frustrating for me. It's become impossible for me to be. . . I don't know. . . nice?"

"And this makes you feel even worse," Harper adds. "Makes you even more frustrated, so you're more inclined to lash out?"

I nod.

"When did you first notice this had become an issue?"

"Well, I mean, I used to think really sarcastic things all the time in my head. That's normal, right?"

"Very normal."

"But the problem is I can't keep thoughts in my head anymore. They just blurt out before I can stop them, and then I end up feeling terrible but I don't know how to apologize so then I feel even more terrible and I get more frustrated with myself and—" I'm talking way too fast, but Harper doesn't ask me to slow down. "It feels like when I'm not consumed with anger, I'm fighting not to burst into tears. There's no real in-between."

"Don't worry," Harper assures me, scribbling something down. "These are all common symptoms of depression."

I frown. "I'm not depressed."

Harper clears her throat but doesn't say anything. She just keeps writing until the silence starts driving me crazy. "You mentioned a list earlier. A list of things you find frustrating. Did I hear you mention assassination?"

I take in a deep breath and try to remain calm. "Someone from Hydra tried to poison me."

Harper shoots Gail a panicked expression. "Were they found?"

"Yes," Gail answers. "Benjamin is dealing with it."

I spin around in my seat. "You know who it was?"

"Process of elimination," she says. I start to ask more questions and Gail reaches out and strokes my cheek with her thumb, like my grandma used to. "I'll explain it when you're done here."

"You also mentioned your family," Harper continues, and I jerk back towards her.

"What about my family?"

"Tell me about them. You have any siblings?"

I ignore the question and ask my own. "Are they here?"

Instead of saying no, Harper shoots another look at Gail.

"What?" I surge with panicked hope. "Why are you looking at her? Gail?" I ask desperately. "Is my family on this island?"

"No, dear," Gail answers softly. "I'm afraid your parents and siblings are not in our world."

With absolutely no warning at all, the anger inside of me extinguishes completely. Fighting it is useless. Instead of laughing, I look from Gail to Harper as my face rapidly crumples up. Harper hands me a tissue box.

I blow my nose. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. You may find this shocking, but you're not the first person to cry on my couch."

I laugh and blow my nose again. This whole thing has me exhausted. I wonder how much longer they're going to keep me here. Is this some kind of test? If I get up and leave right now of my own free will, will Harper make note and tell everyone I'm unstable and need to be committed? I wipe at my face and blow my nose until I've calmed down. I need to start acting normal.

Harper sits quietly while I gather myself. She's nicer than I thought she'd be, but then again, you'd have to be pretty stupid to be openly rude to someone who just did what I did to Erik. "If you're okay to continue," she says, "there is one last thing I'd like to talk about today."

I nod.

"I'd like to find out what your process is for dealing with stress." She smiles when I look confused. "You're about to inherit the most powerful position on either island. That comes with no shortage of responsibilities, but I think if we can arm you with the skills needed to handle pressure, you'll do just fine. Now. . . think about a recent time you were immensely stressed about something. Walk me through your thought process."

That's a long list to choose from. I can't even keep track anymore. I think about the survivors asking for me to heal them. I think about what it felt like to know I could help them but to not know how. I think about being disappointed in myself. I think about how that led to feeling— "I have this. . . thing I do when I'm scared. Really scared. I kinda just. . . it's not really that I think of something else, it's more like. . . it's more like I. . ."

"Space out?" she finishes for me. "Block out the noise around you with other thoughts?"

"Yes," I say with a rush of relief that someone finally understands. "Exactly. It's mostly music for me. Whatever randomly pops in my head. Everything else just kind of disappears." As I watch her close her notebook and settle into her chair, my relief lessens.

Harper stares at her folded hands and thinks for a moment before finally looking at me. "Cora, what you're describing is not a universal reaction to stress."

"It's not?"

"No, what you're describing is called disassociation. It's a trigger response to overwhelming stimuli in which you detach yourself from reality in order to feel calm and in control of the situation. If I'm being completely honest, it's a very dangerous response for someone with your. . . abilities."

"Oh." It feels like I'm being chastised, so I sink a little lower in the couch. "How do I stop it?"

"I suggest you keep a journal. Whenever you start to feel anxious, focus on something tangible in the immediate area and write it down. Sketch it. Focus on it and let it ground you before your mind has a chance to wander off. Here, I'm sure I have an extra somewhere." Harper hurries into another room and emerges with a simple spiral-bound notebook and a pencil. "How would you describe your mood right now?"

"Calm," I say.

I know she's been afraid of me this whole time, but I'm still surprised by the level of relief in her voice. "Good. Very good. Come talk to me whenever you'd like. Just send a raven if you're on Hydra and I'll come to you. And remember to use this notebook."

My parents didn't believe in therapy—they said it was a waste of money—but I feel a lot better already. It isn't until we've walked all the way back to Jane's house that I realize there was one thing she never asked me to talk about. One thing I noted in my long laundry list of frustrations.

Harper never asked me about the wedding.

"Sit down, young lady." Gail raises an eyebrow in warning. "Do I need to put you on lockdown, or are you going to behave?"

Jane presses an icepack to the back of her head. "No," she scoffs. "Linus isn't worth the effort it would take to dig a grave. Plus, didn't he get his ass handed to him?"

"Only because Erik cheated," I snap.

"Right," Jane says, drawing out the word. "I just can't believe I missed it. You actually did it? You figured out how to fully berserkr?"

I don't know whether to frown or laugh at the delighted expression on her face. "You mean berserk?"

Jane removes the ice pack and stares at me in bewilderment. "How does a Norse God not speak Norse?"

I roll my eyes and finish up the quick to-do list I created. I'm trying to note all the loose ends I need to settle on this island before I can finally take a ship back to Hydra to spend the rest of my life sitting under palm trees and playing with Fenrir and Pumba.

1. Figure out what's happening to the survivors and reunite family members

2. Heal any life-threatening injuries

3. Apologize to Juliet for acting like a psycho (maybe give blood?)

4. Visit Erik and see if he's healing okay

5. Check on Peter and Darcy and make sure Peter's ankle gets fixed

6. Order a scout team to scope out any potential wandering survivors

7. Talk to Richard—he may know something helpful

8. Talk to Jacob—he's the oldest thing on this island, so he definitely knows something

9. Try the mainland's famous cheese

Gail doesn't put up a fight when I ask to go on a walk alone. I'm not sure if it's because the person responsible for trying to kill me has been caught—I need to add that to my list of things to inquire about—or because "always being followed" was a major point of contention I mentioned to Harper. Either way, it instantly puts me in a better mood to walk outside alone and not have sixteen people vying for my attention.

I check my list again. I don't know where the infirmary is, so I can't check on Erik. I don't know where the survivors are being kept. I don't know which house is Juliet's or Richard's. I guess I could ask someone. Unlike when I first arrived, people are actually out and about. And by "out and about" I mean they're siting immobile on their porches like mannequins, desperately pretending like everything is normal.

One man stands with a garden hose in hand, watering flowers in his yard. He forces what looks like a smile when I approach. "Hello, lady Cora. Nice weather we're having."

I smile to try and put him at ease. "Uh, yeah. It's pretty nice." Hose water sloshes over the garden bed in shaky streams, and his nose is already sweating. I guess my smile didn't help. "Sorry to bother you but I—"

"Oh, no," he quickly refutes, "you're not bothering me at all. Is there something you need? Would you like an offering? I just made some lunch."

I'd sigh, but I think that would only scare him more. "I'm just looking for Richard's house."

In a rushed attempt to answer me as quickly as possible, he uses the hand he's holding the hose in to point and completely drenches the front of my dress. Instead of going wide-eyed and flying into an apology, he freezes, mouth agape. He isn't even able to fully form the beginning of a word. I hear a door slam and turn to find the people at the nearest house have run inside.

I'm embarrassed by how frightened he is, so I start laughing. Oh, wonderful. Now it looks like he's going to cry. But I can't stop laughing. "Thank you. I was meaning to change out of this thing. I haven't showered in like. . . I don't know, three days?" I meant for the joke to show him I'm not angry, but he looks even more terrified.

No harm done! Please don't cry! I'm so sorry I smashed a grown man's body into little pieces this morning!

I can't think of anything to say, so I just walk away.

I really don't want to talk to Ben right now—not after my embarrassing mental break—but Ben's house is the only one I know aside from Jane's, and I have no desire to ask anymore panicked residents for directions.

I give three impatient knocks and wait for someone to answer. A few seconds later the door swings open to reveal Ben, his circular reading glasses perched precariously on the edge of his swollen nose. One of the deeper gashes on his forehead have been sealed with a neat little row of stitches.

"Hi," he says, sounding surprised.

I stare at the small wobbly rodent perched on his shoulder. "Is that a ferret?"

"Haha, hey Noodles," the ferret squeaks. "Come over here. This one speaks ferret!"

"Yooooo, no way." Noodles scampers across the floor towards me like a piece of rubbery, overcooked pasta. His little claws dig into my dress as he climbs up and settles on my chest. "Say something funny."

I look down at his little whiskered face. "Something funny."

Both of them break out into raucous laughter, jump down to the floor, and disappear into the house at record speeds. Something glass breaks. Ben narrows his blackened eyes but doesn't turn around to see what they've broken.

"Sorry," I say. "I'm not interrupting something, am I?"

"Aside from those two breaking everything I own? No," he refutes and immediately steps aside. "Please, come in. If you're looking for Fenrir, Darcy took the lot of them to the swing-set. Fenrir and the little boar seem rather fond of him."

We should be looking for anyone still out there in the jungle. There may be more kids I don't know about. "What happened to Peter? Did Ethan set his ankle?" I walk past Ben into the living room and take a second to get a good look around. When I was here before the holmgang, snooping out his interior decorating was dead last on my list of priorities. Wall-to-wall bookcases span both the living and dining area, and there are multiple nordic paintings above and in-between shelving. I hear the door close and turn around.

"Yes." Ben still has a hand on the handle. "Ethan saw to him before attending to Erik."

Good, I can cross that off the list. "Is there a team I can send to look for survivors? I want to make sure there's no more children wandering around alone."

"Already ordered."

The lamp on his desk is on. It shines down and illuminates all the masses of paperwork he has stacked into neat little piles. I point. "What's all that?"

"I'm reviewing some of the old Initiative treaties to use as a template for the new, more thorough one."

"Hey, new girl," one of the ferrets yells. "Hey! Hey! Hey! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY!"

"Yes?" I snap. "What? I'm listening?"

He stands atop a particularly tall stack of papers on Ben's desk and declares, "Want to see a trick? Hee-YAH!" In a messy flourish, the ferret twirls up into the air, sending the stack of papers flying all over the place.

"Alex," Ben calls loudly and begins gathering the falling sheets. "Can you please take them out of here for a little while? I'm never going to get any work done."

"Noodles! Jellybean! Come here!" Alex sulks into the living room from the hallway. Her eyes widen a little when she sees me. "Oh, hi Cora." I don't even have a chance to respond before she says, "Did my dad tell you I'm grounded for all eternity because I didn't run away from home like a coward?"

"Not in front of guests, Alex, please."

She ignores him and turns completely towards me. "Can I go back to Hydra with you? I'm sixteen now. I can legally go."

I don't know what to say. I'm honestly just glad she's even talking to me.

"Alex," Ben cuts in. "We can discuss this later."

"That's not fair," she complains, stomping her foot like a two year old. "You're always telling me we'll talk about it later, but we never do! You never let me do anything! I'm allowed to go, dad! Why won't you let me go?"

I stand trapped in-between the two of them. I can't help but think of my sisters. If any of us had ever spoken to our father like this, we would have been pushing up daisies.

But Ben only turns away from her, rolling his eyes. "I will treat you like an adult when you start acting like one."

It looks like Alex has a lot more she wants to say, but she's so angry all she does is make a loud exacerbated noise and stomp down the hall with a ferret on each shoulder, slamming her bedroom door behind her.

Ben exhales and takes a seat at his desk in the corner of the living room. "This is not exactly riveting reading material, Miss Collins, so I'm happy you're here. You can help keep me from falling asleep. Oh, I'm sorry. Can I get you something to drink—agh!" He stands too quickly, winces, and reaches for his stitches.

I shoot forward towards the desk. "Are you okay?"

Ben removes his hand from his side, and his face settles into annoyance when he realizes it's dotted with red. "I must have ripped one of the stitches," he grumbles.

"Let me heal it." I walk closer to his desk, already reaching for the dark patch of blood at his side. "At least let me check to see if you really did rip one of the—"

Ben jerks away from me so violently, I wouldn't be surprised if he just ripped all of his stitches. "Do not touch me," he warns.

"Okay." I back away. "Sorry."

Ben silently stares at me long enough that I decide to sit across the room on the couch. Eventually, his expression settles into the recognizable mask of indifference. "Please, Miss Collins," he says much more calmly. "I'm fine. I'll get new stitches later." He exhales slowly through his nose like this is all annoying him. "I haven't even asked why you're here. Do you need something?"

"I'm looking to talk to Richard."

"He's out again." Ben lifts a piece of paper to inspect under the lamp. "I can let you know as soon as he comes back."

"Oh. Uh, okay. Thanks." Notebook. To-do list. What else was there? I take a peek. "Do you know where I can find Juliet?"

Ben is busy shuffling papers into different piles. "Probably helping Erik in the infirmary."

"Where's the infirmary?"

"What do you need to talk to Juliet about?" Ben looks up from the papers. "Have you decided to give blood?"

"I. . ." I don't know yet. Maybe? I mean, she makes a great point. If they can figure out a way to make some kind of healing shot, I wouldn't have to throw up every time someone needs medical care.

"Miss Collins—"

"Please stop calling me that."

"Alright." All the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end when he says, "What would you like me to call you?"

"Just Cora."

"Hm," he muses. "Personally, I'd go with Cora the Just, but it's a matter of semantics at that point."

It takes me a second to realize he's joking. This is weird. I start flipping through my notebook just to have something to do, even though its entirely blank except for the first page.

"At the risk of sounding like a broken record," Ben finally says when I remain silent, "is there any hope you can reconsider the marriage? I think we may be able to persuade your people to cut down the length of the festivities to just one day. Would that help?"

I stop flipping through my notebook. "What?"

"Apologies if I seem a little zealous at the idea. It's just the thought of someday having to go through this again, or Alex being forced to endure it, or anyone else for that matter." Ben stops circling things and throws his pen down. "I just want this done, Cora. Done in the most final and concrete of ways so their children and their children's children will grow up knowing the severity of breaking this treaty. Breaking this marriage pact would be more than a betrayal of the contents of a piece of paper. It would be a betrayal of familial bonds. And family to your people is almost as sacred to them as you are."

What would my grandma say about all this? On the one hand, I'd be going against my principles. . . but, actually, I'd be upholding my principles at the same time. Sure, I'd be marrying a stranger, but does that actually matter if we're never around each other? Does it matter so long as we never get divorced? Am I really losing any personal freedoms if the person I'm marrying thinks I'm a god and is too scared to give me any pushback? Are the generations of lives I'd be saving be worth the pomp and circumstance of this ceremony? I already know the answer.

"Okay," I answer with finality, and he straightens in his chair. "Fine. I'll do it."

"You will?"

"What?" I ask as sarcastically as I can and repeat the words he said to me on the beach. "Don't you think I haven't exhausted every alternative option before relying on marriage to you?"

He opens his mouth to respond, thinks better of it, and nods instead.

I stop myself from saying It's fine because it's not fine. It hurts.

"I didn't mean what I said," he continues, but he's so disinterested he's not even looking up at me. I watch him glance from one paper to another and violently underline something. "I hope you can forgive my insensitive outburst, considering the situation we were in."

I don't believe his apology, and I'm surprised as a sudden wave of sadness hits. I feel myself start to drift off into the music, and I remember Harper's advice. I focus intently on the pen in his hand as it scribbles and circles and crosses and swirls. Being trapped in reality only serves to replay his empty words in my head again and again as he continues to ignore me. It's all so familiar. I'm used to insincere apologies. I'm used to being ignored.

I lock onto his pen again and start sketching it. It's not a fountain pen, but it's no ordinary Bic, either. "What did Aiko see about me?"

"What?" He sounds thrown off by the question.

I keep sketching. "Aiko's vision about me. It scared her. What was it?"

I don't expect him to actually tell me, so it's a shock when he answers, "She saw you—" Ben trails off, looking slightly uncomfortable. I watch him tap his thumb against the pen in his hand. When he answers, it comes out in a quiet rush. "She saw you crush Erik's skull in your bare hands."

I remember the confusion of snapping back to reality, only to find Erik's whimpering face smushed between my hands. I was about to crush his head? I don't even remember picking him up. I feel sick at the thought of Aiko having to see that. I can't help but state the obvious. "She's six."

"Yes, I imagine her parents are going to put her out of commission for quite a while to recover."

Jesus, that poor girl. I wonder if there's ever going to be a way I can make it up to her. I wonder if she just got added to the list of people who are always going to fear me. "That's why Gail wanted me to stay inside," I think aloud.

"Your reluctance to listen is what kept me all in one piece, so thank you for that. At the very least, Erik would have kept me alive to watch me bleed out. On the brightside," he adds softly, "at least you would have been nearby."

It's futile to fight the embarrassed, sweaty flush that rushes across my face. "How is that the brightside?"

"Ease of access." He looks up from the paperwork like my question was a personal insult. "To guide me into the afterlife."

Oh. Right. That's what he means. Guiding souls has apparently been added to my list of island duties.

Ben scrutinizes me from behind his desk as I grow sweatier waiting for him to say something else. Without another word, he turns his attention back to the piles of paper and begins circling and underlining things again.

Am I supposed to leave?

Oh, no, I'm still covered in mud!

I shoot up off the couch as if I'd been burned. All at once, I'm struck with a sudden traumatic memory:

I'm 13 years old. My mother has just driven me to my first co-ed party at the house of one of the most popular girls at school. I begged her to just drop me off and pick me up at 10pm, but she only agreed to let me stay if she met the parents first and assessed the situation. After she finally leaves, I head into the living room, where the party is taking place. The lights are down low, giving me goosebumps as I look for a place to sit.

I was punctual, and apparently that's not cool because there are only a few people here, and none of them belong to the popular crowd. I don't see my best friend anywhere, so I take a seat on the sofa and play with my skirt. I don't know why I wore a skirt. I hate skirts. They ride up my thighs when I walk and I hate that I can't bend over without worrying I'll flash everyone.

I've had a massive stomachache all day, and even though I've been craving nothing but salt and chocolate for the past week, I stay away from the snack table filled with bowls of chips, Heresy's kisses, and a platter of tiny triangle sandwiches. If I start to gorge myself now, I'll never be able to stop, and this whole show of dressing up in uncomfortable clothes and hanging out with people who don't even like me will all be for naught.

That's when my world stops.

Patrick Higgins—the boy I've had a fanatic crush on since the 1st grade—has arrived.

I start aggressively straightening my clothes.

Patrick makes his way around the room giving people high fives and munching on the chips I crave so badly. To my complete shock, he plops down on the seat next to me. "Hey," he says.

"Hi," I manage to squeak out. I can't move. I've been completely paralyzed. I'm sitting as ram-rod straight as my spine will allow, my fingernails digging into my sweaty palms. In fact, my whole body has broken out into a sweat, and I'm forced to yank an arm up to wipe away beads of perspiration gathering on my forehead.

"Karly, right?"

My face is on fire. "Um, actually it's Cora."

Patrick slaps his forehead and says, "Oh, Cora! Right. Sorry. So, when did you get here?"

I'm in complete bliss that he's even talking to me. "Just now," I lie. I want to say more, but my throat has closed up.

He scoots closer and places a hand on my leg. "You look really nice tonight. I like this skirt. You should wear it to school."

"Thanks," I breathe. And then my guts explode.

I end up doubled over, gasping. The pain is unbearable. I'm going to die. I stand up and stumble in the direction of the front door. I need to call my mother. I need to call 911.

Somebody screams. I turn around, and the host of the party is pointing at me with a trembling finger. "Ew, ew, ew, ew, ew!" she screeches bloody murder, her face slowly reddening with fury.

One of her friends screams, "She got it on your couch!"

I stand there in the middle of the room, in debilitating pain, utterly confused with what's happening. Then I see the blood.

I'm dying.

Of course, I wasn't actually dying, I just didn't fully understand what a menstrual cycle was. Catholic school and a very Catholic mother probably didn't help.

I snap out of my memory only to notice that Ben has been silently watching my cringing face while I relive one of the worst moments of my life.

He squints at me in the lamplight. "Something wrong?"

"Oh. . . uh, no. No. Just. . ." Please don't let there be mud on the couch. I could cry from relief when I don't see any. "Do you mind if I look at your books?" As soon as this wedding nightmare is over, I'm never coming back here, so I might as well make the most out of snooping through Benjamin Linus's house. Maybe I'll discover something interesting.

Ben gives approval with a sort of shooing motion before returning his attention to the stacks on his desk.

The vast collection of books seem to be organized by genre, with a fiction section separated from an entire shelf dedicated to Scandinavian languages and culture. A few particularly old looking books and scrolls are housed in a glass case. I start at the top shelf display first and make my way down through a list of titles I've never heard of until my eyes zero in on something off to the back.

"Oh my God," I blurt out. At the sight of it my heart breaks out in sporadic beats. "Is this a first edition?"

"Why? Do you want it?" When I turn to look at him, he's already halfway across the room. "It's yours if you'd like it."

"No?" I'm so confused. Is he afraid of me, too? "No, that's okay."

"It's the least I can do to thank you for your help." To my absolute horror, he opens the glass case, lifts a worn copy of The Hobbit off its stand, and holds it out in offering. "Please," he says earnestly, "I insist."

I didn't tell him which of the dozens of books I was excited about. "I'm not stealing from your rare book collection."

"It's not theft if it's a gift."

"I. . . I'm all muddy." It would be just my luck to have it survive all these years just to decompose within my very hands, not to mention the oils and sweat and whatever else is coating my fingers. "I don't want to ruin it."

"Then go wash your hands," he chides, smiling.

Even after I scrub my hands and arms in the kitchen sink until my skin is raw, my fingers hesitate to make contact.

"Just take it," he laughs lowly. "It's not that delicate."

The edges have some slight wear, and the cover illustrations are a few shades lighter with age, but besides that, it's a perfectly intact copy. "This is a first British printing?"

"It's the oldest surviving copy, as far as I know." Ben's eyes dart from one side of my face to the other. "Why? Does that have some kind of significance?"

"Are you kidding? This has the original conversation between Bilbo Baggins and Gollum. It was completely rewritten after Tolkien starting working in earnest on Lord of the Rings in order to better fit with world-building continuity and he practically ordered the old versions to be stripped from the shelves and he never gave permission to reprint it and now the only way to know what the original says is to buy a copy at auction and—" Stop talking. Look at the way he's staring. You are boring him to death. I stop talking and take a seat on the couch.

This cannot be happening. I run my fingers over the stiff spine, caressing the cover and the sides of the yellowed pages, barely applying any pressure for fear of destroying it. I probably look insane, but I honestly don't care. I love books like most people love money. In my lap I hold what was probably the only good thing to come out of my childhood.

I haven't been this giddy since my mother splurged one Christmas and bought me three brand new books from an actual bookstore. "Where did you get this?"

"I stole it from a museum."

"Really?" I ask in amazement.

"No, I bought it at an auction on a trip to Europe." Instead of taking a seat across the room at his desk, Ben sits down so close to me I feel his pressed kakis brush up against my thigh through the layers of my dress. The air around him smells faintly of expensive cologne. "It was a hell of a time bidding against some rich entrepreneur from Switzerland."

"Why bother?" I turn to look at him, and our faces are suddenly very close. I wish I could move. I wish my pounding heartbeat would slow down a little so I could think. I wish Ben would stop staring at me, but I don't know a polite way to tell him to stop. And it's not just that he's staring at me, it's the way his eyes focus so sharply, so intensely that you start to feel indecent. Five minuets ago, Ben was tense with hasty apologies, but now I'm the one bumbling around like an idiot. I look back down at the book. "I didn't take you for a fantasy fan."

"Is that so?" Ben's voice has regained its usual velvety calmness, and I struggle to focus on the content of his words instead of the smoothness of his speech. "What did you take me as?"

I stare holes into the cover illustration and shrug. "Historical nonfiction?"

"Ah," he draws out. "So you think I'm boring. Good to know. I'll have to work on that."

I'm actually very used to people flirting with me. It's an unfortunate fate I've grown accustomed to through the years. There's something that seems to transcend age about using the least attractive person in a group as your "in" so you can hit on the hot friends. It happened in middle school. In high school. All throughout undergrad. Hell, it happened just two weeks before I woke up on this island. Flirt with the fat girl, and her skinny pretty friends will think you're such a nice guy.

It happens so often, I'm usually entirely impervious to it all. But it's difficult to dismiss what's happening right now because I don't understand Ben's angle. The war's over. I even agreed to the stupid wedding ceremony. What else is there?

A huge chunk of anxiety lessens as I realize the answer. Actually, now that I think of it, everything else makes sense as well. It's the reason why he reacted so violently when I offered to heal his stab wound. He doesn't want me to waste my powers on something non life-threatening because he needs me to save my energy for his spinal operation. It's why he looks so intensely upset when I use my powers and get sick. The more often I get sick, the less likely I'll be to willingly heal him post-surgery.

Wait. The Other's have a submarine. As long as Locke doesn't blow it up, we can use it to send the survivors back home! If I can get them out of here as quickly as possible, I can save a lot of people who are going to otherwise die in the coming months.

"What's the long-term plan for the survivors?" I ask, already feeling the relief of a slowing heart-rate. "Is there a way you can send them home in your submarine?"

"Some of them, yes." Ben abruptly stands and walks back across the room to his desk. "I'm always very surprised by the bits of information you know versus what you don't. Did Gail tell you we have a submarine?"

"No."

He nods slowly, squinting like he doesn't believe me. "Well, it can't fit everyone in one go, so the return process may take a few months. Or do you know all about that as well?"

I honestly can't tell if he's angry, or if he's just teasing me. "Not really," I say.

"We'll have to think of a means of separating them into smaller groups," Ben muses and returns his attention back to the papers on his desk. Pen in hand, he begins underlining again. "I'm sure that's going to be a fun debate, considering they were tripping all over each other just to have you heal a rash."

"You saw that?"

"Heard it, more like. They were very passionate in their triage disagreements."

"And what about the people on your list?"

Ben doesn't look up. "What about them?"

"Are you sending them home, too?"

"Not immediately."

"Why not?"

Ben taps the pen against the papers and flits his eyes around. "Don't you know?"

Oh, I see. He's worried I've figured out why he's being so nice to me. I stand up and turn to gather my notebook. "You don't have to lie to me, you know." I hear him laugh from behind the desk. When I turn around, he's smiling down at the paperwork.

"Lie to you," he says. "That's funny. As if Gail wouldn't rat me out in a heartbeat."

"You can just ask if you need my help."

"Yes, I'll be sure to do that if something comes up."

As I near his desk, he all but turns to stone. His eyes are the only thing that move as they roll up to look at me. "Listen," I say, "I know you have a spinal tumor that needs immediate removal." Ben lifts his head up slowly, eyes wide with fear. I watch as his face rapidly drains of color in the lamplight, and I wonder why he seems so shocked I know. "You need to keep Jack on the island because he's a spinal surgeon. I already know all of that, so you don't have to be secretive about it anymore. If you want my help post-surgery, you can just ask."

"I. . ." His pen slips out of his hand, but he doesn't seem to notice. It's only after Ben finally gets the answer out that I realize why he looks so scared. "I have a . . . what?"