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is roasting above the fire, speared with a makeshift skewer Tristan built from a piece of metal salvaged from the wrecked wing. The sight sickens me.
    "I'm sorry," Tristan says when I approach the fire.
    "It's… you just blindsided me."
    "I didn't mean to. It should be cooked in about an hour."
    "No edibility test?" I inquire.
    "None needed. We both recognized the bird."
    "I won't be able to eat anyway." I pace around until Tristan says it's ready. Hunger gets the better of me, and I force myself to take a few bites, though I feel sick afterward.
    "Go inside," Tristan says. "I'll clean up around here."
    "Thanks." I glance up at the sky. "Why are search missions carried out intensively just in the first forty-eight hours, Tristan?"
    "After forty-eight hours they don’t expect to find anyone alive. But it doesn't mean they will stop looking for us, Aimee," he says. "Tomorrow morning we'll light the signal fire again. We'll be fine. They'll find us." His tone appears firm and steady, but I detect a tinge of uneasiness under the layers of his reassurance. He doesn't believe they will find us. Fear bites into me hard, but I will myself to remain calm like Tristan. His calmness and fearlessness awe me. And I'm convinced he's not faking. As I watch his well-built frame and heavily muscled arms move in the shadows, I can partly understand why he's not afraid. If I were that strong, I'd feel more courageous… or not. Who am I kidding, I've always been a coward. Still, watching him, I fear a little less.
    Lying on my reclined seat inside, I hug the pillow under my head and try to decide which sleep-inducing technique to use. Since I only sleep four or five hours a night, I rely on these techniques to be able to fall asleep; otherwise it can take up to hours for that to happen. But tonight, none of the techniques help. I fall asleep long after Tristan has gone into the cockpit, and when I do, I dream of a helicopter rescuing us in the morning.

N o rescue helicopter arrives. Not the following morning, or any morning after it. I expect Aimee to break down, but she doesn’t. It shouldn’t surprise me, though. I’ve suspected she is strong since I first met her.
    Chris Moore hired me as his pilot two and a half years ago, giving me the chance for a
    fresh start I so desperately needed. I was grateful to him, and even liked him. Despite his wealth and success, he was grounded and unpretentious. When I first met Aimee, I was pleasantly surprised to learn that she was just as unassuming.
    And so much more.
    She went out of her way to be friendly, making it easy to adjust to my side job as her driver when Chris didn’t need me as a pilot. I suppose I came off as cold to her, because I only acknowledged her effort with a curt thank you . But I wasn’t used to anyone being friendly to me. Over the past years people had either shown me pity or feared me. Not Aimee. Of course, she didn’t know anything about my past—Chris kept his word and never told her.
    When first I drove Aimee to Chris’s parents’ mansion, I realized Aimee hadn’t given me any special treatment. She was genuinely friendly to everyone on the staff. They all liked to be around her.
    So did I.
    I liked it a little too much.
    She had a way of growing on people without even trying. She was warm and eager to get to really know people. A bit too eager… and the secrets I carried were best left buried. So I was content with being around her, or observing her from a distance.
    From where it was safe.
    Here, where our lifeline depends on working and sticking together, where I’m prepared to do just about anything to keep her safe, it will be hard to keep that distance, but I will do my best.

W e fall into a good routine in the weeks following the crash. One of the first things Tristan teaches me is how to start a fire without a lighter, insisting we keep the lighter for emergencies. I don't ask what those cases might be. I catch on quickly and soon enough, I can start a