"Where are we?"

Darla yawned, rubbing at the substance between her eyes. If it had been edible, she would have consumed it. She yawned again, turning to the boy, whose eyes had remained on her hooded figure.

"In a cave," she said, yawning once more.

"I meant our location," he replied.

For a moment, there was silence. The sound of footsteps knocking against the rocks caused his eyes to scan the area. It smelt like rusted iron and rotten eggs. He couldn't remember how he had slept the night before, especially next to a woman—something he had determined by her low, feathery tone—he didn't know.

He had taken a risk—as a member of the Mason family, it was not something he could—no, must not—do.

He sucked in a breath, jerking back as her finger sank into his shredded, blackish-red spotted jeans—once blue, they had been a gift he had received from his father.  It had been two days since he learned of his father's existence, and he had gone and ruined the jeans. Great.

"Why don't you worry about that injury first?" Darla muttered.

Mr. Mason wanted to cut her off—for that was who he had become five days ago, or two, if he only counted the days since his father officially recognized him.

Another bead of sweat trickled down his skin, dropping into the wound. "AUGHHH!" he screamed, biting his lips.

Darla sighed, hooking her arm under his and dragging him outside the cave like a broom as he continued to scream. He was two stools taller than her, so it was inevitable.

She dropped him by the seabed, using a seashell to scoop some water and a few herbs, just as her grandmother had shown her when she was alive—unless some miracle had happened while she was on this island.

"What are you trying to put on my leg?" the boy asked.

Darla pinned his leg in place, starting an operation as if he were thin air. He was like a house fly, buzzing and buzzing each moment he was awake, and nothing she did or said seemed to shut him up.

"Can you at least tell me how you ended up here?" he persisted.

Darla paused.