Then the sound. Waves. Distant. Rhythmic.

Your eyes crack open to a blur of green and blue. Palm fronds overhead. Sand beneath your cheek.

You're on your back. Something feels wrong. You sit up too fast.

The beach stretches out in both directions. Empty. Smoking wreckage is scattered in the distance, half-submerged metal and torn fabric.

Your head pounds. Your mouth tastes like copper.

The plane. You remember—

Screaming. The cabin lurching. Your mother's hand slipping from yours as everything went dark.

You're alone.

No adults. No passengers. Just debris and silence and the endless crash of the tide.

You push yourself to your feet, legs shaking. Your stomach twists with hunger.

In the distance, past the treeline, fruit hangs heavy from low branches. Beyond that, the jungle thickens, dark and waiting.