“Showtime,” she finally said. Her knees popped as she lowered her head even with mine. She dug her nails into my arms. “I want to thank you for doing this. For bringing her back.”
I peeked at the doctor. “Who?”
She pointed to a stool in the corner of the room. “Rosa. Whenever I feel most alive, like right now, when I can feel the blood zinging through my veins, my daughter visits me. You brought her here tonight.”
She was speaking figuratively, right?
Raeanne nudged Sofia out of the way. “Let’s get moving, Doc.” She took Sofia’s spot by my head, pulled the toothpick from her mouth. “Time to be brave.”
I rested my chin on the table and held Raeanne’s gaze. I would not think about the potentially hallucinating doctor about to put a needle to my foot.
“It’s gonna hurt a lot,” Raeanne said, breath rancid, “but only for ten minutes. Only for a hundred breaths in and out, and we’ll do them together. You ready? You’ll breathe with me?”
I nodded, unable to stop quivering. I had a frantic thought that I needed to know what was coming and glanced over my shoulder.
In Sofia’s hand was a cautery pen. The tip glowed red.
Raeanne brought my head back to face her. “Soon you won’t be afraid of pain anymore, I promise.”
I had been expecting a bunch of tiny bee stings, like with my star tattoo, but when the tip of the pen touched my toe, a white-hot pain sliced through me. I jerked and screamed.
“Hold her still,” Sofia said.
The pressure on my arms and ankles intensified. The pen kept moving. When the smell of burned flesh hit my nostrils, I stopped moaning. I could barely feel my foot anymore.
At last fear was leaving my body.
37
Natalie
JANUARY 9–10, 2020
I WAIT, CROUCHED under a spruce. Hail ricochets off the trees. When I’ve convinced myself the masked woman is gone, I dart down the same path she took, trying to retrace our footsteps. But she must have brought me out here on a roundabout route; none of my surroundings are familiar. Actually, all of it’s too familiar, one grove of trees identical to the next. I feel like I’m in a maze. The same eerie sensation I’ve had since first setting foot on this island settles over me: I’m being watched.
I scope the forest, chest thumping, afraid to yell for help.
“Hello?” I call.
No one answers.
What kind of guru leaves someone to freeze to death?
The weather’s not letting up. Snow falls thick as fog. My parka is warm enough for arctic conditions （thank baby Jesus）， but my hair is wet, ears frozen. I pull up my jacket’s hood, cutting off my peripheral vision. I push it back down, scared of what I can’t see.
Why did I follow her out here? How could I be so stupid?
I’m about to call out again when I hear a cracking sound. I whip around but don’t catch anyone behind me. For a minute, maybe more, I stand there. Nothing but the endless deluge of hail. I hear the sound again, and this time I’m sure it’s the sound of knuckles cracking.
Is she fucking with me?
I turn a slow circle, the trees closing in on me. I listen for more cracking, but all I hear is the wind. I probably imagined the noise. I decide not to wait to find out.
I run, sure I’m fleeing something but no idea what. Blindly I push my way through clumps of branches. The branches claw at me; needles cling to my jacket. I need to be more methodical if I’m going to find this door but I can’t think over the wailing of my lizard brain: faster, faster. I don’t see the tree root on the path until it’s too late.
My boot catches on the root. I grunt as I fly through the air, and bite my lip hard when I come down. The heels of my hands catch the brunt of my weight. I lie for a second, facedown, and imagine Wisewood’s troops closing in on me. I see them turning me over, blood weeping from my eyes and ears and nose. I picture them tossing my waxen corpse into a hastily dug plot, my hair filled with writhing worms. My mouth is frozen in a silent scream.
Nothing happens. No one comes. I sit up and assess the damage. My palms are scraped; my mouth aches. I lick my lower lip. It’s bleeding and beginning to swell. I wiggle my ankles. Nothing is twisted or sprained. I’m okay.
I bring my knees to my chest. The masked woman warned me that what Teacher says goes. Could she have been Rebecca? Would she stoop to such dirty work?
No way is this a run-of-the-mill self-improvement program. Either a staff member has gone rogue or Rebecca has institutionalized psychological warfare. Is this how they keep guests and staff in line, by terrifying them into submission? Kit has been rushing around, doing Rebecca’s bidding, since the moment I got here. She has them all trained like dogs. When I get off this godforsaken island, I’m going to drag that woman through the mud until she’s buried.