"Toss it," said the girl, gesturing impatiently at Miles.

"But," he gestured back, at the barrier, "won't it tear into shreds if I throw it through this thing?"

"It's an inanimate object," she said, her voice growing insistent. "I tossed it to you and it was fine, remember? So give it to me. This is important."

Though not sure about Mr. Reynolds getting his grubby hands on the precious notebook, Miles strangely trusted this native girl. And if he didn't hurry up, he had a feeling she'd reach through the barrier and choke him out.

He pulled out the notebook from under his shirt, and with one last look at it—something told him he wouldn't see it again—he threw it at the girl.

She caught it with ease, then stuffed it right into Mr. Reynolds' grip. "Read. Fast. We don't have much time."

Mr. Reynolds frowned at her, then more so as he opened the book and saw the inscription inside. "Ms. Moreno's book? Her research?" He shook his head, wincing. "You want me to read this? Why? It's all bogus, didn't you know? It's what got her killed. I can't read this."

The girl elbowed him, causing his frown to deepen. "It's not bogus, and you don't even know what's in it, anyway. I've heard the way you talk about her. Ms. Moreno? She was a saint, and you trapped her, put her in this position where she had to obey. You got her killed, not her knowledge. Well, I want you to read exactly what it is you prevented her from exposing to the world. And I want you to regret it."

Mr. Reynolds lifted his nose to the air, but looked down at her as if she were a speck of dirt on his shoe. "Fine." He thumbed to the first page. "But I'll be speaking to your family about this. For stealing this," he shook the notebook slightly, "from a dead woman's room. I don't care where you come from, what your traditions are—that is not acceptable."

A surprising aggression filled the girl's voice as she elbowed him again, harder this time, making him double back and almost drop the book. "Shut the fuck up and read, would you? You don't know my family, you don't know me, and you sure as hell have no right to punish me for anything I do."

Miles remained silent, eyes wide open, taken aback. She couldn't have been more than sixteen years old, yet spoke like a full-blown adult with thorough knowledge of the world and how it worked. If she was indeed a resident of the island, maybe she was alien, too. Maybe she was much older than she looked, because she certainly carried herself like a grown woman, not a teenager. Something about her posture, the firmness of her expression, the relentlessness of her tone.

Though seeming taken aback himself, Mr. Reynolds didn't prod her further. He took a moment to straighten up, rubbing at the area where she'd elbowed him several times. He then used one hand to fix his jacket, then to turn the pages as he read.

Page after page, he mouthed the words he saw on paper, sometimes fast, sometimes in a whisper Miles could perceive over the light buzzing of the barrier's surface. His eyebrows twitched once or twice, and his cheeks alternated between deathly pale and so red they were almost violet. He held on to the book, his knuckles turning white, his fingertips red from pressure.

At one point, he removed his fedora and wiped the sweat that had gathered over his forehead. Was he angry? Shocked? Disappointed? A man with such a normally neutral expression was hard to read to begin with. But now, his features tore between so many emotions that it was impossible to know for certain how reading this book was affecting him.

Miles ended up sitting on the ground, back resting against a tree trunk. The monster growls had ceased, but still he sensed that they were nearby, lurking. Waiting for him to leave, so they could follow him and drive him to become so paranoid that he jumped off the cliff to off himself before they did.

He glanced up at the bristling leaves, at the afternoon sunlight peeping through, at the pretty colors fading over every branch. Such a waste of a beautiful paradise island; used for alien gods to abuse young adults and torture them.

When Miles was about to stretch his legs out and close his eyes, Mr. Reynolds unleashed a string of curses and threw the book to the ground. About a half hour had passed, or so Miles judged, and Mr. Reynolds had finally gotten to Ms. Moreno's last entry. The entry that sealed everything together.

The girl hadn't taken off this time. She'd stood by Mr. Reynolds, watching his every move, almost braced as if to hit him were he to try anything. Or to force him to keep reading if he were to try to stop.

What kind of power did she have over him? He'd threatened her, and she'd all but spat at his face for it.

Can she teach me her ways? I'd love to intimidate Mr. Reynolds the way she does.

Mr. Reynolds stormed to and fro in front of the barrier; a sort of anxious pacing coupled with his fists bunching at his sides and muted mumbles shooting from his mouth. At first, Miles couldn't hear him, couldn't tell what he was saying. But soon enough, Mr. Reynold's voice grew in volume, and his muttering made sense.

"It can't be possible," he said, slowing his paces, slightly turning his head towards Miles. "No, I believed in them. I thought they were actual deities from here, this planet. Not... not aliens. No. You said that word earlier, and I took it as an insult. But it's... no, it can't be."

Miles pressed his palms to the ground and heaved up to his feet. "Yes. Yes, aliens." He made a point to glimpse the girl quickly, to see if she'd flinch or get angry at him for calling them aliens; but she had no reaction.

Maybe she's not one of them, then? Or she's not offended at the term, unlike the ruler was.

"I was under the impression that they were overlooked gods. Some that were left out of history, but were better than all the other religions around, those propagating crap, drilling their doctrines into innocent minds." Mr. Reynolds faced the barrier, looking behind Miles. "But she... she thought it was aliens? No, it can't be."

Mr. Reynolds, a religious man? After everything he'd put Miles and the others through? And countless others before them?

"Don't play shocked," he said, getting as close to the barrier as he could, the tip of his nose so near it he swore he felt his skin burn. "You thought you were worshiping gods who were okay with human sacrifice? You speak of propagating and doctrines; don't you see that's what these guys are doing, too?"

"Human sacrifice has been done in other religions, boy," said Mr. Reynolds, his voice like a whip, whooshing up to Miles and smacking him across the face. "Why would this one be any different? Though I recognize no propaganda or doctrines; everything is restricted to this place. They don't preach, they only take hostages."

"Sacrifices," said Miles, sensing his upper lip curling. "And it is different, because it's not a religion. More of a cult, and fucked up one, at that." He brushed off the violence of Mr. Reynold's tone, dismissing it. He had the upper hand now, knowing more than Mr. Reynolds did, and having potential proof of it. "I spoke to that ruler thing; you know, the one you told us to obey over here? Yeah, well, she more or less confirmed that she and her gods," he used air-quotes with a snicker, "are in fact not from this world. She denied the word alien, trying to put her species in pretty language to make herself look better. But it's real, it's all real. And it's a scam from the government."

Mr. Reynold's cheeks inflamed. The usual darkness in his eyes was less frightening now; he was losing control, losing his temper, and slowly understanding that he was in the wrong. He'd been in the wrong for a long, long time. Oblivious, blinded by a fake faith, hoping to do God's work when in fact, the God he venerated was an illusion.

"So what Ms. Moreno implied..." Mr. Reynolds shakily pointed at the notebook on the ground. "Our government has been secretly dealing with this alien lifeform for decades? Masquerading its agreements with aliens as agreements with gods? They've... been duping us?"

Incredulous—Mr. Reynolds was a gullible moron, clearly—Miles stole a glance at the girl, who was shrugging.

"Is this dude for real?" Miles shook his head, then re-addressed Mr. Reynolds. "Did you really believe our government was good? Have you ever watched the news or seen some of the laws they put in place? The way both political parties go for each other's throats? You'd call that good? And on top of all that they already do, you'd assume them trafficking young adults over here was part of some godly plan?"

Mr. Reynolds straightened up, pulling on the lapels of his jacket. "I was raised to trust in my political peers, yes."

"Political assholes," Miles wrinkled his nose, "and you were brainwashed. Just like you tried to brainwash us. You mean to tell me all this time, all those years of ushering students over here and leaving them to die... you thought gods told the government to tell you to do it? You're that blind?"

Mr. Reynolds narrowed his gaze. "Young man, if you think—"

"—what I think is, yeah, you're blind. For sure." Miles smirked; oh, he definitely had the upper hand. Mr. Reynolds was useless, powerless. He'd been a zombie zoned in on politics and religion, completely absorbed in all their lies. "You didn't see or care about the shit this revered government of yours put us through during the pandemic? The way they divided our country, our entire world, with all their political bullshit? None of that came out wrong to you?"

"Of course it did, but I—"

"—you were an idiot," Miles interrupted, no longer fearing this man. Days prior, he'd have been afraid of what he could do, afraid of the power he'd wielded in deciding a group of students was to remain captive on an island. But now Miles saw Mr. Reynolds knew nothing, had no power, had no say in anything. He was a follower, obeying orders from aliens, and he didn't even know it. "You still are. What Ms. Moreno wrote in that notebook is true, all of it. I believe her. It's much more plausible than thinking gods would ask you to do such a thing."

"We thought—I thought we were sacrificing students for good. For protection." Mr. Reynolds' act—standing up straight and proud and authoritative—crumbled. He was nothing but a man in his forties who'd been deceived his whole life, and he had no one to prove himself to anymore. Miles had read through him, and the girl silently listening to their debate would likely chop his head off in an instant if she wanted to, flighty and sly as she was.

"Protection, maybe; but not for good. You read it." Miles scoffed. "It was for entertainment."

"Entertainment," Mr. Reynolds repeated, elongating the word as if he'd never heard it before. "Duped into supplying satisfaction to a bunch of inhuman foreigners from a distant planet that seeks to supposedly help human planets? Foreigners who've failed to safeguard other planets? No."

He stomped off, fuming, but before Miles could call after him and demand that he come back and fix things, he did come back; quietly. He lowered to the ground, plucked the notebook, opened it, then extracted a pen from his inside pocket.

Scribbling furiously on a blank page, he peered up at Miles, his features indecipherable once more. Back to neutral, albeit tinged with redness still spreading over his cheeks.

"I have a manual in my possession. A guidance book of some sort, but I've never opened it, because I have faith about all this." He was still writing, but paused briefly to tap the end of the pen to the paper, and jut his chin at it. As if to say "wait, I'm going to show you what I'm writing."

"And?" Miles crossed his arms, unfazed by this new information.

What would a guidance book do for him? How would it get him and the others out? What was Mr. Reynolds purpose in telling him this?

"It's a guide on how to operate... things." Mr. Reynolds's eyes focused on the barrier separating him from Miles, then on Miles' face, then on the barrier again.

"Things..." Miles held in a gasp. "Things, right."

He's saying his notebook tells him how to operate the barrier?

"Okay, cool, so what does it have to do with anything?" Miles felt that Mr. Reynolds was about to make a point, but he was dragging it on, still writing who-knew-what in that notebook. Probably a paragraph of insults so horrid he didn't want to say them out loud. Or a drawing of how he planned to have Miles hung for disobedience.

"I'm warning you that I'll have it with me next time I come to you, so we can go over your punishment. You've been disobeying, and I must find a suitable means to make sure you don't do so again."

As Mr. Reynolds spoke, he lifted the notebook and flipped it to Miles, so he could read:

"They can hear and see us, but they don't know our language written down, from what I was told. These fake gods can only speak English, not read it. Remember that, and nod if you understand."

On instinct, Miles nodded. A cool breeze blew down his shirt—or maybe he was experiencing chills, but he couldn't tell for sure.

So that was why the gods hadn't intercepted him and killed him yet. They didn't know what was in Milla's book. Even if they had been watching Miles, they couldn't have known what he was reading. They couldn't have known what Miles had found out.

Mr. Reynolds returned to scribbling, but continued speaking in a monotone voice. "You'll need to fetch that vagrant friend of yours, Kera. Bring her here, if she's still alive." He indicated, with his chin, that he was going to show this new paragraph to Miles, as well. "I have a ritual to summon the gods and submit your disobedience to them directly. They'll be the ones to decide of your fate. And of Kera's. Hers will probably be worse." He winced, crossing out something on the page. "But I think forcing you to watch her trial and execution will terrify you into obeying, won't it?"

He raised the notebook again:

"I'm not going to stand for this anymore. I hate being played, and bullied."

Below it he'd drawn a thick line over a few words, and Miles couldn't tell what they had originally said. The final words, however, brought Miles to a half smile, half frown:

"Gather whoever isn't planning on obeying. And Kera, for real, if you can find her. Meet me here tomorrow, early morning. I might be able to get you out."

Miles barely had a second to nod, and opened his mouth to ask the hordes of questions cramping into his brain—but Mr. Reynolds dropped the notebook and twisted away from him. He didn't turn back around this time, disappearing behind the rows of bungalows.

Miles looked at the girl, who bent down to read Mr. Reynolds' words. She mouthed them, softly, then gawked up at Miles with arching eyebrows.

"Oh, shit," she said, letting go of the book, too. She kicked it back on the other side of the barrier. "Keep that safe. Do as he asks. Go," she motioned towards the forest, "get out of here, before they come snooping. Because they're hovering, I know it, I feel it, and they're going to want to know what happened here."