The vines are laughing and saying that John s dead, and for just a second I believe them. It stops my heart, and I burst into hopeless, helpless tears. It isn't until I feel his pulse, strong and steady still for all that he's unconscious, that I can breathe again at all.

None of us know what to do, not really, and I can't even see how it matters. We're trapped and at the mercy of plants and armed men who seemed determined to kill us for no reason at all.

I want to say that John's going to be fine, but I can't even get out a lie. I just cling to his hand and weep.