There is no more wood. I've scoured the island from one end to the other, and where can it possibly be? How can trees exist like this? Only branches high up, well out of my range? How does this ecosystem even exist? There's no fauna, no beetles, no worms. I haven't even see a mosquito since I set off at early light to try and square more supplies. Actually, I can't recall ever seeing any insect life at all.

We're also out of berries.

So, in sum: No more food. No more wood.

And it hasn't rained since the first time. So, scratch drinking water too.

I'd say things are getting grim. I had a woeful night's sleep, listening to Andrea's breathing, convinced at any moment she'd choose to…opt out of this existence.

I don't blame her. I wouldn't want to wake up next to me, either. I barely spoke to her yesterday. And it's getting harder and harder to push away the fear that's been crushing in on me the longer I see her get weaker.

If the discussion stayed away from rescues and missing passengers for as long as possible, I'd be more interested in having it. It's hard enough to squeeze from my brain the reminder of where the passengers are. Along with the other thing. The pressing, squirming mound of…

"Guilt."

Andrea. I sigh. Ghost Andrea is back. "Go away."

"If you wanted me gone, I'd be gone. You like having me around, don't you Miranda? That's why I'm here. Why you've condemned me to death in this tropical getaway. Just so you wouldn't have to travel alone on your flight back to ruin Stephen's big day."

I purse my lips and glance around. Have I tried the trees on the far side of the ridge? It's hard to remember. My brain goes in and out of focus these days. Sometimes I struggle to remember my own daughters' names. That's a pain I have no words for.

"Caroline and Cassidy," Andrea says helpfully.

"I know." I grit my teeth and glare.

"You're afraid you'll forget though. You wonder who you'll even be if you don't even have your memories of them. Does a person cease to exist if they have no memories? Are we all just the sum of our experiences and recollections?"

"Get out of my head."

"You like having me here. Someone to berate instead of yourself. Do you think your Andrea's berating you in her head right now? Well, hating you more than usual?"

Is she? Truthfully, I'm not certain what Andrea thinks of me. But, probably, yes, hate should be high up the list. I'm as demanding a boss as ever existed. But now, even more, she has grounds to put me in her column of loathed people. Especially after last night's chat which was about as comfortable as a barefoot stroll across a fire pit. "I don't care what Andrea thinks one way or another. She's just an assistant."

As lies go, it's not quite the biggest one I've ever told but it may as well be given Ghost Andrea's appalled expression. She gives a twisted parody of a laugh; one I'm quite sure my Andrea has never uttered in her life. "Oh Miranda, is your nose growing longer? You think about me all the time."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"You wonder about me constantly. You're still bothered by finding me in bed with a woman. You still worry that she'll see that you care more for me than you should. Is that why you're here, hiding out, far away from her, so she won't see you start to unravel? You will soon. We both know that. Are you afraid all your secrets might start spilling out? How attractive you find her, maybe? Or how gay you really are? Perhaps how useless and out of control you feel despite that indomitable front you wear? But, fine, put some distance between her, and there's absolutely no fear anything unfortunate might be said at a weak moment."

"Don't be absurd. I'm gathering firewood and berries."

"I don't see any."

"No. I know." I exhale. "It's a slight concern." Did I try the lower track? What about roots? People eat roots somewhere, don't they? I frown, squinting to a sandy area with a few low trees.

"It's funny that you're not hiding from me, are you? You're not cowering from my probing questions. Only hers."

"Hers are real. You're not even here. How can one be frightened of an illusion?" Another lie. Not as monumental as my earlier one. The ghosts of my flight still terrify and haunt me in my dreams. Not sleeping ever again has begun to seem more attractive.

"You didn't answer my question." Andrea leans in, and it's the most unnerving experience having a face so close to me that looks like hers, but isn't, and has no heat or movement of air as it shifts. "Does she know you like her? Like that?"

Fury floods me. Before I can unleash a volley of vitriol, the mirage blinks out of sight.

My hands twist into balls. Tormented by my own psyche now? Well, that fits. I've been suppressing so much about myself for so long my subconscious probably sees a chance to fight back. I will not tolerate it though. I'm in control, I remind myself. I am Miranda Priestly. I am...more than all this.

I dust off my pants. It's past midday now. Anger rises anew as I head back to camp, fueling my shaky steps. Anger with myself that I have failed as a scavenger today; putting Andrea at more risk. Anger that I have been hiding like a coward from her relentless questions. And fear that she will see how frail, weak, and flawed I truly am under this mask. She needs me to be strong. I can't lapse now.

I won't stand for it.

Hell no. I. Am. Miranda. Priestly.

It takes an hour to reach camp again. I stop each time I'm dizzy, and there's little shade. My stomach growls and churns. I'm desperate for water and lightheaded with it, but I've been conscious of rationing to leave enough for her. She needs it more than I do, if she's to heal.

Cresting the ridge, my gaze settles on her once more. She's moved. Not far, but still. What has she been doing moving? Doesn't she understand how fragile her health is? What the hell is wrong with her?

There are telltale chunks of plastic by the fire, broken debris. A cellphone? Oh. Her Blackberry. I'd found it early on, day two or three, I think, during one of my laundry missions. I turned it on. Dead. I returned it to her pouch for her where she'd left it.

Apparently her reaction to it not working was more violent than mine. Considerably more.

What is that noise?

She's crying. No, worse than that. Sobbing, shoulder shuddering, wrenching sobs. It pierces me like fingernails down a chalkboard; the most heartrending sound. It's like it's judging me and shredding me. I feel like the worst heel.

Setting my jaw, I move about, picking up the pieces of the Blackberry. If one of us was to tread on this, it could slash open a foot. Really, could she be more careful? And a tantrum? Over a broken phone?

Her sobbing is getting worse and I can't bear it. Guilt slices through me, just for something completely different. Can't she just…deal with this? Can she not…

Ugh. My old headache that's been plaguing me off and on for hours kicks in with force. "Are you planning on ceasing this driveling any time this afternoon?" I only barely keep my tone civil. What has she got to be this distraught over? A dead phone? I'm the one being tormented by mocking spirits. I'm the one who has failed at my one duty; keeping Andrea safe and well. I couldn't even furnish us supplies today.

She sniffs and hiccups. Her cheeks are red; more than just from sunburn and salty trails streak down her cheeks. The swelling in her eyes suggest she's been in a state for some time.

I frown. Is she hurt? Has something else occurred? Alarm fills me. "What's wrong with you?" I take a step closer.

"Go away," comes her ragged plea. "Go do whatever it is you were doing all morning. Just leave me alone."

Two more steps, and I'm bending over trying to understand, reaching for the bandage under the waist of her skirt. An injury is nothing to be shy about. This is important. "Andrea, there is no—"

Oh. I stop, finally realizing the cause of her distress. The odor is, as always, unmistakable.

That's it? That's all it is? This caterwauling and carry-on over nothing? A bathroom accident?

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." She's lost in a burble of sobs again.

I can't believe it. I gape at her. It's like the entire world is ending. Is this really all there is to it?

"I tried to… I mean, I couldn't…I couldn't get… my… my skirt off… I tore something… or something." Her voice is hoarse and pathetic by the end.

Dear God. How on earth does she think she managed while unconscious? Does she truly believe I haven't been dealing with her bathroom issues for a week now? I am immune to such occurences now, for heaven's sake. Perhaps she feels I will shame her for this? What sort of monster am I to her? Or is it just embarrassment in general? And over something so... meaningless in the scheme of things? My headache thumps harder, reminding me of my lack of sleep and water. Christ. I've laid out decomposing bodies. Searched them. Thrown up what miniscule nutrition I had in me at the sight of those empty eyes and worse. Been judged and found wanting by Derrick in my nightmares, always telling me about the family he'll never see again. Then there's Toby, a little boy I killed.

I killed him for you, Andrea.

And this minor accident is what Andrea regards as worth disintegrating over? The same girl who brought me an unpublished Harry Potter book in a day. It makes no sense.

I want to laugh but I'm too incredulous. Then I want to shake her out of it. Doesn't she understand this is the least of what pain is? A little humiliation is nothing compared to... I almost choke. The memories, horrific and real, wash over me again and it's overwhelming. I force them back with a suppressed snarl.

God. Reaching down, I grab the two belts on her skirt, haul her back out of her tiny puddle, back to where she should be sitting.

Then I remember the rest of her ramble. Didn't she say she'd torn something?

With practiced motions, I quickly find her button and zip and ease the skirt down. I cover her, as usual, in Derrick's jacket and remove her La Perla for yet another wash. Then I examine the wound. There's fresh blood on the jeans. If she's torn this in some pitiful effort to relieve herself, I will be most aggrieved.

Delicately, I peel back the denim.

Oh hell. It's hideous.

Not the verdict Andrea's anxious face will be looking for. Her gaze attempts to peer down at her waist, then, giving up, searches my face.

"It's turned… black," I say as diplomatically as I can muster.

The smell is vile. How can she not have noticed that at least? Did she look at it? Worry courses through me. "Do you know what that means?" I demand.

"What does it mean?" Wide eyes blink back at me.

Why is she asking me that? That's why I asked her.

"It'll be fine, Miranda."

Andrea's looking at me intently, as if waiting for me to offer some reassuring platitude in the face of that ridiculous attempt at optimism.

I can't play that game. "I don't believe this will be fine." She's owed the truth. I can't provide her anything else she needs so she can at least have that.

"The doctors will look at it after we're rescued."

Rescued. My stomach does a lurch. Does she know what the word does to me? Round seventy of Guilt, The Tsunami Edition, crashes through me. I purse my lips and wish I was anywhere but here. I'm out of my depth. All I can do is what I do know. I gather up her soiled things and march down toward the beach. I can wash, I tell myself grimly. I can hang her things out. I can make her feel cleaner. But I have no idea at all on what to do with a wound like that.

It's dusk. Her clothing is drying by the fire; but I'm worried for how long we'll even have that. Tomorrow. I'll look for more wood tomorrow. My eyes are shut because I absolutely cannot invite conversation right now. It's too fraught. And I'm exhausted. My nerves are at their limits.

While I was washing her delicates earlier, I saw Ghost Andrea again. Her body this time. A lump on the shore where I'd found her. And this time I cried, as I stood, ankle deep in the waves. It was too much. I hate the sight of real Andrea at times because of it. Then I feel bad for that. Not looking at her's just easier right now.

Besides, I'm not fond of being looked at like I have the answers. That's another responsibility.

Doesn't she understand yet? Doesn't she? I'm just a woman.

I'm nothing special. Not right now. Not anymore.

I'm not The Miranda Priestly.

I'm just…Miranda. My eyes clench tighter.

Later I hear, small and soft: "I apologize. I was being passive aggressive earlier… I didn't mean to cop an attitude."

She's apologizing to me.

I won't answer that. There aren't enough apologies in the world to cover what I've done to her.

It just makes me feel worse.

"I'm going to sleep," she adds when I continue to feign sleep.

I wish I could sleep. I miss Nigel. And my girls. Now all can I hear is Toby's mocking whisper in my head.

"You'll kill her with your bad medicine."

I think maybe I will. I didn't kill her in the crash. Or on the beach that day. But now, here, my own ignorance will end her.

I really am just a powerless, fragile, pitiful woman. Nothing special at all.

Just...human.