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edge and then flips it open to reveal a screen. He taps it and it comes to life.

A video starts to play.

One of those email invitations. An animation of an envelope opening. A beautiful and intricate

envelope. Like Johnny and I are getting invited to a wedding.

A card slips up and out of the envelope and the message begins as pretty, animated calligraphy.

Megan Machette and Johnny Boston. You are cordially invited.

A picture flashes.

The island where Johnny found me. The long stretch of white beach.

Nine o’clock am.

Then another flash. This time video.

A man sitting in a chair. Hands bound to the arms and hood over his head. An anonymous, gloved

hand reaches into the frame, plucks the hood off, and there… there is… “My father,” I whisper.

His face is bloody and bruised. His eyes almost completely swollen shut.

Flash back to the invitation.

Come together.

Then another flash. This time it’s not an actual photograph or video, but a very realistic CGI

animation of people sitting down at a large dinner table. Lots of people.

“Shit,” Johnny says.

“Who are they?” I ask.

“Jesse, Joey, Zach. Emma’s brothers. Her parents. Her co-workers and their families. Shit.”

Another flash. But not back to the invitation.

This flash is an explosion and the whole dinner scene goes up in flames. People are screaming and

running, and—

Johnny throws the tablet into the water and everything goes quiet.

And then there’s the sound of numbers being dialed on a phone and Johnny is saying, “Jesse! Jesse,

are you OK?”

My legs are suddenly weak and shaky and I know if I don’t find a place to sit right now, I will pass

out. So I ease my way over to the edge of the sun deck and collapse, gripping the edge hard to keep myself upright.

They got to all of us.

There is no way out.