The Forsaken

no different from any of the other orphans or kids at my school. This is insane. How did I even get here? There are no tire tracks or roads. Was I tossed out of a helicopter? Doubtful. I don’t have any broken bones, and the pain is already subsiding.
    I check my skirt pocket for my government ID card. It’s not there. There’s no sign of my earpiece either. I feel shorn of my identity. I always hated the photo on my ID card because my hair looked so messy. And I hated my annoying earpiece, too. Now I’d do anything to have them back.
    The camera! I suddenly remember that the museum’s video screen is the only means of communication that I know of between the UNA and the island. It can’t be too far away if I can see that spiral staircase. If I can reach the staircase, then I can find the camera and signal for help.
    I’m aware this was what the blue-eyed boy might have been trying to do, even though he didn’t seem as panicked as I feel. But no one could understand what he was saying. I won’t make the same mistake. I’ll write a message somehow and prove I’m not some crazy savage. I’ll let them know they’ve made a huge error. Hopefully they’ll send someone out to rescue me right away.
    Of course I’m scared that a monstrous figure with a painted face will burst out and grab me before I can reach the camera. For all I know, someone is tracking me already.
    Still in shock, I start hobbling through the dense forest in the direction of the giant staircase, moving as fast as I can.
    But I don’t get very far. I make it only fifteen paces before I see a pale object sticking out from a thick tangle of underbrush.
    I stop moving and crouch down, trying to figure out what it is, and whether it’s dangerous to walk past it or not. It takes me a second to realize it’s a human hand.
    I’m instantly terrified, but the hand isn’t moving. Maybe its owner is already dead. Or maybe it’s a trap.
    I stand up warily, ready to move on.
    Then I hear a voice gasp: “Help me—”
    I freeze, too scared to move. The voice is coming from inside the underbrush.
    “Help me!” the voice gasps again. “Please—” The hand disappears, and the brush starts shaking.
    As I back away, a boy slowly sits up. He’s dazed and covered in leaves. He looks like he’s in pain. His short black hair is scruffy, and he has a horizontal burn mark across his forehead. He’s skinny, with a nose that’s slightly too large for his angular face. His almond-shaped eyes squint against the light.
    He starts coughing, struggling to breathe. I realize he’s probably waking up here for the first time. Just like me.
    I watch him in fear, prepared to run. Most likely he’s a malevolent psychopath. Someone with madness and chaos inside him waiting to flower on the island. An Unanchored Soul. But of course I’m here, and I’m not crazy, so maybe he’s normal and there’s been another mistake. But what are the chances of that?
    “Stay away from me,” I say, my voice cracking.
    The boy tries to stand, but staggers and falls back down.
    He looks up at me with dark eyes. “We’re on Island Alpha, right?” he croaks. He sounds scared, but not surprised. I don’t answer at first. But he keeps staring at me.
    “There’s been a mistake,” I say finally, as I begin backing away. “I don’t—”
    “You’re from New Providence,” he interrupts.
    I stop moving, startled. “How did you—?”
    “I am too. I just figured they’d dump us near each other. There are probably other kids somewhere around here—unless we’re the only two who made the cut today.” He finally gets to his feet and stands there swaying. He’s only a couple inches taller than I am. “I was afraid this would happen to me.”
    “Why?” I ask nervously, muscles still primed to sprint away from him.
    “Because I don’t trust the government, that’s why. I’m not an Unanchored Soul, and I’m betting you’re not either. I’ve heard stories about kids getting sent here just for criticizing Minister Harka.” He hesitates. “And I’ve heard worse things too. That every now and then the government sends some normal kids here for the crazy ones to hunt for sport. Just so they don’t cause trouble.”
    I don’t respond. Back home, antigovernment talk like that could get you locked up. Of course, now we’re in the worst situation I can imagine, so what we say probably doesn’t matter anymore.
    “I’m David,” the boy says, extracting himself