I woke up confused and lost. When I saw Josh lying next to me, I came to. I realized I was in a small tentlike thing in a camp of Banditos I didn't want to belong to. I left the dark tent, letting Josh sleep longer. I noticed a figure or two in the distance, so I faked. I even went so far as to hum an upbeat melody I'd thought of. Nobody could know. 

Jenna came out of her tent, sending my brain into a spiral of thoughts. I ignored what was going on in my head and focused my eyes on a small tuft of grass that was pretty far away. She sat, of all places, right next to me. Of course she did. She opened her notebook, to reveal a bright floral print that covered nearly the whole page. 

"She's great," I thought, and soon she was trying to start a conversation. She asked me: "Why are you being so quiet?" I just shrugged and stared at the ends of my boots. She looked at me, tapping her pencil on the edge of her notebook. "You talk nonstop around Josh," she continued, her pencil forming near perfect leaves with about two motions. "Hard to find the words to say," I said, my voice softer than expected. "You speak in poetry," She said, a small smile on her face. 

"What's that supposed to mean," I asked, now smiling too. "I like it," She said, "it's like everything you say is a metaphor." I looked at her now. "It's natural." She smiled, and looked down at the ground. 

"That's why."

"When do you write," she asked, "I've never even seen you with a pen." "I always have one," I explained, pulling one out of my pocket. She smiled at that, and that was when I noticed the sunrise glow cast over her face. Her hair shone like gold, and, though tangled, fell perfectly over her shoulders. 

Watching her draw was mesmerizing and intoxicating, and I couldn't look away. I don't even think she ever erases. If she makes a mistake, she turns it into something else. "It's metaphorical," I said aloud. She looked puzzled. "The way you turn mistakes into something," I went on, "It's beautiful." She smiled. 

A couple of other people started coming out of their tents, all looking tired. I recognized one of them as Dylan, a guy I'd attended elementary school with. It was always weird, seeing people I knew, and used to goof off with, before all of this. It was all business, all the time, and most of the people were unrecognizable.

Another thing I've noticed: all of these people in this camp believe that we can just up and leave. It's not that easy. Have we ever even heard of anyone escaping? No. It's a rare feat. Maybe it takes a mass breakout, a mob, chaos. Even then, everyone won't get out. 

We'll win, but not everyone will get out.