"She's not here. You're not in 12," there are people on the island that have given this speech dozens of times, but I'm not one of them and I hardly know where to start. My hand travels up to the scar across my cheek, pink and fading but still permanent. A souvenir from a time when there was nothing I wouldn't have done for Gale.

I remember that I wanted him to shoot me. If my plan went awry, if I failed to swallow the pill. One good, clean shot and everything would end. I know he wouldn't fail me like I failed him.

"It's...hard to explain," I begin. "It's an island."