It really isn't that hard to reach into his bag with my free hand, and I find the knife by the simple expedient of nicking my finger on the blade. It only seems to take a very long time to slice through the vine, one-handed as I am. Because I am not letting go of him either, not with the vision I have of being dragged off into the jungle by plants.

Not when I watch with sickening clarity how the vine sucks up the drops of blood from the tiny cut on my hand.

"All right," I say, finally free and clinging to both John and his knife with an equal death grip. "How do we get away from here?"