Page 36 of Dearly Departed

It’s a…

Ladder?

It looks like a ladder.

That’s the kind of thing that would be a cute little mystery in a movie and does not seem like a cute little mystery right now. It seems weird and foreboding. Is climbing a ladder the only way to get off the island? I’d climb a ladder for Jacob, obviously, but there’s a major problem with that plan, which is that he’s unconscious. I couldn’t carry him to this ladder even if he helped.

“Weight training,” I mumble to the book. “As soon as this is over.”

There’s only one more page in the book—a booklet, I guess—and it’s…

“Horoscope shit?” I read it twice to be sure I don’t also have a fever.

I was wrong. There are no horoscopes. But there is a list of astrological signs arranged in a column, starting with Aries and ending with Pisces. A second column is just numbers. The third and last column is…random objects.

“I’ve learned something from this experience.” I put the book aside and pull out the black case next. “I’ve learned that people still make comb-bound books with weird lists inside. It’s not a dead end, it’s just not miracle antibiotics.”

The black case has heft, so I rest it on the floor, then unzip it.

My heart zooms back into place.

“Jacob, there’s a radio.” He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t move. But this is definitely a radio. It’s nestled into the case with another heavy-duty plastic box with switches on it. I take the walkie-talkie part—it feels like it could survive being blown up by a bomb, or, like, exploding in an airplane—and the black box out to see if there’s anything underneath.

There isn’t, but there’s a ladder etched into the slot in the foam that held the black box and a slim cutout in the foam that holds a mini compass.

“A compass is good.” I put it on the floor next to me and turn some switches on the walkie-talkie.

The screen lights up.

“Holy shit.” Another dial changes the volume.

Static. A ton of static.

I push the button. “Is anybody there? Can anybody hear me on this?”

Nobody answers. The static doesn’t change. Maybe that has something to do with the ladder. Maybe this only works if you climb the ladder. I could do that. We could do that if Jacob gets better.

The switches on the black box don’t do anything, as far as I can tell.

I turn off the walkie-talkie—the radio—whatever it is in case it doesn’t have much battery and put everything back in the case, then zip it up. My hands shake. I’m excited, I think. I’m hopeful.

I have one more thing to look through, and it’s the white metal box.

When I pull it out from the cabinet, my hope turns into hope confetti and, like, trumpets playing. On the case’s slightly battered lid is a big, red cross.

“Please. Please don’t be empty. Please have something good.”

I undo the latches on the front of the box and open it.

It’s full.

The box is full of first-aid stuff. There’s a bottle with disinfectant and some gauze and some bandaids and even a collection of smaller glass bottles and—and needles? Syringes and needles and three pill bottles and a packet of water purification tablets and a packet of electrolyte tablets and a packet of⁠—

Radiation tablets?

“Good!” I don’t know I’m crying until my tears fall on the packet of radiation tablets. “Good. This is good. We can figure it out from here.”

The first thing I do is look at everything in the first aid kit piece by piece. There is, thank God, a tiny guidebook smaller than the palm of my hand. It doesn’t have instructions for our specific scenario, but it does have suggestions.