DISCLAIMER:
I do not own LOST or any of its affiliated characters, settings... and the rest of it, even if I really really want Ben. Amy Reading is mine though; aren't I lucky?

AUTHOR'S NOTE:
Chapter 2, with some happenings. Ooh! If you are reading this, I'd love to hear what you think of it – so drop a review to let me know you're there. Thank you to all of you who have already left reviews, or put alerts on this story or favourites or whatever. There's nothing better than logging into my e-mail and reading nice things. :) THANK YOU!

There was fear, and surprise, she could feel them.

She saw, could almost feel, as if it was tangible, the movement of a trap being set off, a man being dragged up and strung up from the tree.

The net, swinging; a cry of surprise.

A man's shout for help.

For some reason, the importance of this man seemed to be impressed into her. Important, something told her, this man was important.

Orange? Something was orange.

As soon as Amy had seen it, she knew it was something that had just happened. Quickly getting her breath back, she ran a hand over her tired face. Throwing back her sheet, she pulled on a pair of jeans and a sleeveless t-shirt, before tying her hair up into a tight ponytail. She shrugged into one of the loose striped shirts she had salvaged from the wreckage, and buttoned it quickly. Grabbing a bottle of water, a few bandages just in case, and a mango from the few that she'd picked earlier, she began packing a small backpack. Securing the straps tightly, she scanned her tent for anything else she would need. She slipped her hand under her blanket and brought out her journal, which she shoved quickly into the open front pocket of the backpack before slinging it over one shoulder. With a wince, she bent down and started digging into the sand with her hands. After a few moments of digging, she uncovered the small handgun she had secreted there, wrapped in an old shirt. She hurriedly shook the sand off it, and loaded it with the stolen ammunition from the shirt's pocket. Flicking the safety catch on, she tucked it into her belt, pulling her t-shirt down to cover it. Straightening, she moved to the doorway of her tent.

She was careful not to make too much noise as she drew back the canvas of her makeshift tent and stepped out. The fires were still burning softly, and the sea was calm. The camp was quiet; not even Claire was awake with Aaron. She figured Jack and Locke must be down in the hatch, but everyone else seemed to have settled down for the night. Amy picked up one of the crude torches she'd helped make earlier that day, and tip-toed over to the fire. It took more than one attempt to get it to light, and she hissed in alarm when it crackled into life. Spinning around guiltily, she waited to see if anyone had woken. The silence continued, and Amy let out a deep breath.

Carefully making her way to the edge of the jungle, she kept furtively glancing round to see if anyone had woken. Seeing no one, she started into the greenery. There was a path of sorts now; after two months on the island their continued use of the forest had led to the plants underfoot being repeatedly trampled on and killed. There was a less obvious path that led to the hatch, and a more-used one that led to foraging sites and the waterfall. In the dark, it was hard to differentiate between plants and path, even with a light, but Amy didn't need to anyway – she knew exactly where she was headed.

She didn't mind being in the jungle, and mostly enjoyed it when she was part of the foraging parties. Not that they really needed to forage for food now, after the discovery of the hatch. However, fresh fruit was something many of the survivors had learned to enjoy during their time on the island, and it was still needed to stock up the DHARMA supplies. They didn't forage for food in the dark though. At night, the jungle was frightening, and she held the torch in front of her like a weapon, something that would ward off the evil she imagined lurked between the trees. And if that didn't work, thought Amy wryly, there's always the gun.

Not that she knew how to use it. Load it, yes, Jack had shown her how to do that weeks ago. It was the actual using that she was uncertain about. But surely it was just a case of pulling the trigger? She hoped it wouldn't come to finding out.

Amy stopped for a moment to get her bearings. She felt a bead of cold sweat trickle down her back; she shivered and clutched the torch tighter. The weight of the gun tucked into her belt was both reassuring and frightening. Confident on where she was headed, knowing it from what she'd seen, she walked hurriedly in the direction she knew was right.

It was little over an hour before she found the clearing. He was shouting; confused cries for help rang through the forest that she had heard yards away. The net still swung gently, and she could see his huddled figure in it.

"Hello?"

She moved closer, seeing the figure stumble to his knees in the cramped space. He pressed his face against the coarse rope as she made her way to the area, torch illuminating him. This was exactly as she'd seen it in her vision; she knew she was in the right place.

"Oh, thank God," he cried, voice shaky, "Get me down, please... please, I don't know how this happened ... I..." he stopped to take a breath, and seemed to compose himself. "My name is H-Henry Gale. Please, get me down... Help me!"

Holding the torch close enough to light his face up, Amy saw his wide blue eyes stared at her imploringly, big in his dirty face. Those eyes were piercing, intelligent, and it was a little unsettling to be the focus of them. His short hair was messy, dark strands sticking up in all directions. Her vision flashed across her memory; orange, what was orange? Peering closer, she saw the t-shirt he wore beneath his green jacket – orange.

"I'm Amy," she said slowly, still watching him, "Were you on the plane, Henry?" As soon as she said it, something else flashed across her vision.

A submarine.

A quiet young boy, an older man; a greeting from a friend.

A submarine.

The man – Henry – was now staring at her with a frown. "Plane?" he said, his brow crinkled. "What plane?"

She winced and put a hand to her aching head. "No," she said softly, before raising her head and staring him dead in the eye, "But where did you get a submarine on a desert island?"

If something flickered in the man's eyes, if the blue orbs grew a little wider, the shock was gone as soon as she'd seen it, and his frown grew deeper. He shook his head quickly.

"No, no, we came in a balloon. I... I'm from Minnesota. We crashed here, in a balloon. A hot air balloon." His eyes were closed, his breathing loud. He seemed to be trying to control his emotions.

"We?" asked Amy sharply. She glanced around at the surrounding jungle and moved closer to the net. "Who else is here?"

"No-one. I came here with my wife." His voice was hard now; he seemed angry, regretful. His voice then turned into a tear-choked whine with his next words, his emotions showing. "She's... she died. She got sick." He let out a breath of air and opened his eyes, which were now bright with unshed tears.

"I'm sorry," said Amy quickly, meeting his eyes to show her sincerity. He nodded grimly, and then looked away. "How long have you been here?"

"We crashed four months ago." His voice wavered, and he shook the ropes he held tightly in his fists, "Please, please, Amy, please get me down."

Amy stared up at him, before driving the torch into the ground beside her. She swung the pack down from her shoulder and produced a bottle of water. Taking a sip, she offered it to the man in the net above her.

"Would you like a drink, Henry? Something to eat?"

"I'd like to get out of the net, Amy," came the sarcastic answer, but his voice held no spite, just weariness. He took the proffered bottle anyway, and gulped eagerly. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he muttered his thanks and handed the bottle back. Amy screwed the cap back on, and handed up a mango, which he bit into just as eagerly. Juice dribbled down his chin, and he dabbed at it with his free hand. Satisfied he was fine for the moment, Amy sat down on her haunches to rummage through her pack for something to cut the ropes with.

"Did you come on a plane?"

"Huh?" she looked up to find Henry looking at her curiously. "Er, yeah. We crashed about eight weeks ago."

He raised his eyebrows at that, but then turned his attention back to his mango. After a few bites, and seeing Amy had not yet found anything, he seemed impatient. "Are you going to get me out of here, or will I continue straining my vocal chords?"

A sharp bolt of pain cut through her head, and she cried out. She gripped her hands to either side of her head.

Sayid, sawing at the rope.

A dirty woman, warning him not to.

This man, this Henry, running from them.

Arrow.

Shot.

Pain.

Blood.

With a great expulsion of breath, Amy came back to herself. She looked up in surprise to see Henry pressed against the ropes, an arm reaching towards her, his face shocked.

"Amy? Amy, what happened? Are you okay?" He sounded genuinely worried, and his arm still reached for her.

She pulled herself to her knees, and stared at the ground, rubbing her head.

"You wouldn't understand."

He laughed shortly, bitterly, and tossed the remains of his mango to the ground before her. "I don't think I understand anything on this island."

She swallowed, hard, and then looked up at him. "Henry, I can't get you out of there."

His face showed confusion; his hands gripped the rope so hard his knuckles turned white.

"You don't have a knife?" His face fell, and his voice changed to the desperate pleading she'd heard as she entered the clearing. "Oh, please, surely you have something, something with an edge, use a rock..."

She cut him off with a raised hand. "No, look, I'm... I'm sorry Henry, but this isn't what happens."

His voice grew higher, louder with frustration. "What do you mean? This isn't what happens? I'm stuck in a trap, damn it, but you don't cut me down—"

"Henry, look, someone else is going to come for you."

The dirty French woman.

Rousseau, was it?

Distrust, suspicion, fear.

"She'll be suspicious," she continued, "and she won't get you down, but she'll get someone else who will. They'll get you down." She sighed, deciding not to mention the fact he'd be shot, and pulled her pack back onto her shoulder. "They'll take you to our camp."

The hatch.

Surprise.

Jack, cutting, then pulling, the arrow from his shoulder.

"How do you know?" he asked quickly. "Will you send them?" He was watching her carefully; those pale eyes wary, noticing the way she winced.

"No," she said hurriedly, pulling the torch from the ground. "They'll find you. Just trust me, Henry."

"Trust you?" his voice was close to incredulous. "You've just found me trapped in a net, you're able to get me down but you won't, and you expect me to trust you? Why should I trust you?"

He was angry, and it was understandable. She knew he wouldn't trust her unless there was something, something she could tell him, prove to him... her next vision didn't make sense to her, but she had a feeling he'd be convinced by it.

An x-ray.

A tumour.

Shock, fear, lots of fear.

Why did he get sick on the island, how was it possible?

"You thought you couldn't get sick on the island." She said carefully, watching his face, "When did you find out about the tumour?"

"When" wasn't the question she wanted to ask. Why was the vision so recent – surely there weren't hospitals on this island? How did you find out? Who took an x-ray on an island?

She saw again that fleeting look of shock, the obvious surprise that came over his face before he gained control, and just stared at her blankly.

"What are you talking about?" He could have been an actor, thought Amy almost admiringly, but she'd seen what she needed. He was convinced; his doubt and fear would lead him to trust her. Not the greatest of trusts, but one that would keep him from telling, which was all she needed.

"Henry, they'll come and get you down. It can't be me." She shifted her bag on her shoulder, brushed her hair out of her face.

"But... how do you know? Amy, what's going on?" He was scared, that much she could see, but he was confused more.

"Just... look, don't tell them I was here. When they bring you back, I'll meet you, and I'll tell you everything, I promise," She met his eyes. "But you'll be meeting me for the first time," she stressed.

"What's going on?" Henry's voice was weary, close to whiny, and she felt sorry for him.

Amy looked at him, really looked at him. "That's what I want to know." She kicked some leaves over the half-eaten fruit, hiding it. She turned on her heel and walked to the edge of the clearing before stopping. She did not turn round. "Remember, Henry, I wasn't here, and you don't know me. If you can act that as well as you acted not knowing what I was talking about when I asked about the tumour, you'll do brilliantly. Please, just trust me."

With that, she hurried back into the trees, the jungle swallowing her, and Henry's shouts echoing through the jungle shortly after she'd left him.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

READ AND REVIEW, thank you very much. I'll give out cyber-hugs and love. Who knows, I might even cook up a big batch of cyber-cookies... :)