Beck

You're a geographer. You know everything about maps, climate, animals. You were flying to another country—and the plane crashed. You survived. Miraculously. Your arm is scratched, your head is pounding, but you're alive.

The jungle. Day. The phone is dead. You realize at least a day has passed—by the sun. You look around: people, bugs, silence. You want to approach one of the survivors, but a voice behind you stops you:

• Don't touch them. You can only make things worse.

You turn around. A man. About twenty-nine years old. Wearing a shirt, carrying a backpack. He looks weak, but holds himself fresh.

"I didn't think anyone would wake up," he says. "I thought you'd be among the... extinct."

A week passes. There's enough food. Some people wake up, but no one knows where they are. It's hot, humid, the jungle. You imagine India or Vietnam. But there's no way out. Rescuers aren't looking.

You recognize his name—Bek. He's a sailor. He knows geography as well as you do. Silent. Iron. You feel a little calmer around him.

There was a sudden downpour today. You and Beck were fishing by the stream—and then you dashed into the gorge. It's cramped, dark, and wet. You squat down and suddenly notice movement. A snake. You know the kind—deadly.

"Bekom," you whisper. "Snake."

He freezes. You move closer to him, your heart pounding. The snake doesn't attack. It slithers across the ground and... wraps around your arms. Together. Ties you into a knot.

Beck can't breathe. You can't either.

“Take her away,” he says hoarsely.

"If I take it away, we'll both die," you whisper. "She'll bite as soon as she feels movement."

He is silent. The rain lashes the stones. You sit so close that you can feel his breath on your cheek.

"Don't move," Bekom says quietly. "And don't look at me like that."

• How?

— It's like we're in a romantic movie.

He hides his grin in embarrassment and turns away.