The Castaways by Jessika Fleck

Author:Jessika Fleck
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: young adult, romance, YA, YA romance, Teen, Teen romance, Entangled, Jessika Fleck, island, high school, tribe, fantasy, Opposites attract, forbidden love, finding inner strength after trauma, Jessica Fleck, Jessica
Publisher: Entangled Publishing, LLC
Published: 2017-03-15T16:00:00+00:00

Sweat beads on my upper lip and I can taste the salt in my mouth. We’ve been tip-toeing as well as anyone could ever possibly tip-toe through a forest for hours and without a cloud in sight. Even here, under the trees, the heat and humidity is getting the best of the island.

We’ve gone off course. Off the map Lewis worked so hard to perfect.

We’ve gone without drink or food for far too long.

We’ve fallen farther behind, quickly losing the Panthers. The only indication we’re going the right direction is an occasional swear or demand shouted by one of them.

Charlie and I don’t dare speak. We barely make a sound save for our breathing and an occasional, unavoidable branch under foot.

He’s not well. The kid is pasty and wheezing. So far, the low, whistling breath streaming out his mouth and nose isn’t horribly loud. But if it continues and worsens, I’m worried he’s going to make the Panthers turn around for us.

With the image of them bagging us up and adding two more mounds to their backs, two more kills to present to the King of the island, my body is forced around by a horrible retching behind me.

Charlie’s doubled over, arms hugging his gut, and dry heaving into the forest air. His bracelet has fallen off and lays on the ground in front of him. I backtrack to where he is, pick up the doubloon, and shove it into my pocket. He doesn’t even notice.

I place my arm around the kid’s shoulders and open my mouth to ask him what’s going on, to plead with him, for the love of God, to be quieter, when I hear the trickling of water.

The beautiful, wonderful, amazing, lovely, sweet trickling of water.

He stares up at me. I didn’t believe it possible, but his eyes are in worse shape than this morning: darker, puffier, screaming red veins webbed behind the bright blue of his irises. “Water,” he wheezes.

“Yes, okay.” I’m so sorry. What was I thinking dragging a sick, dehydrated nine-year-old through the forest in this heat? “Come on. This way.” I grab his hand and it’s clammy, listless, barely able to grasp back. His head bobs with each step we take toward the sound until we reach the spring.

Flopping down onto a rock next to the pool, Charlie holds his head in his hands while I fill his gourd. When I hand it off to him, he pours it into his mouth, spilling half in the process.

“Slow down, buddy. Too much and you’ll puke it all up.”

He nods but continues pouring.

I head back to the edge of the water and fill my own gourd, barely resisting the urge to stick my face in and drink straight from the spring. And then I understand. It’s hard to drink slowly when your mouth is so dry it’s as slick as rubber. The water slips and slides down and I choke a bit because it’s so fast.

Now we’re both coughing, but it’s a joyous sort of coughing—it’s wet.

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