The Last One by Alexandra Oliva Page A

Dessert-sweet, but I don’t care; I inhale the whole thing and open a second. I stop after two, though, to allow my stomach to settle. Four hundred calories; it feels like a feast.

    Next I walk through the aisles, savoring, dragging my fingers along clothing and flashlights and camp stoves. This, I realize, is my reward for making it through the coyote Challenge. I’d forgotten there would be a reward.
    At the wall of footwear I see the ridiculous not-shoes that Cooper wears. Did he also face a coyote for his last Challenge? Maybe each of us got something different, something scaled to our abilities. Cooper got a bear, and he—I don’t know how he handled it, except that he was perfect; if he breaks, it won’t be because of panic. If Heather’s still in the game, she got a bat or a spider. It seems unlikely she’s lasted this long, though; she would have quit the second night if we’d made her go it alone. The Asian kid—I can’t remember his name—got a raccoon or a fox, something smaller than a coyote, but clever. A squirrel for Randy, of course; or, no, a bunch of squirrels—a whole scurry of squirrels, as a chart I once read and want to believe claims a group should be called.
    Whatever their Challenges, I hope they cried for help too. I hope everyone but me remembered the safety phrase and screamed it to the sky.
    I hope they’re okay.
    I find a hiking boot I like—lightweight and waterproof—and take the display tag to what I imagine is the stock room, a door to the left of all the footwear. The room beyond is dark, windowless. Only a trickling of daylight enters from behind me. It doesn’t smell.
    I return to the aisles, find a flashlight and a pack of AA batteries. My stiff fingers can’t open the packaging and my knife isn’t much better, so I go to the Swiss Army Knives and Leathermans. I hesitate briefly—no weapons allowed—but as I pick one that feels comfortable in my hand and flip out its longest blade I remind myself that they’re called multi- tools and are no more dangerous than the blade they gave me. I cut open the pack of batteries. This is beginning to feel like a scavenger hunt. Or a videogame. Find item A to gain access to item B, find item C to open item A. The sense of accomplishment I feel sliding the batteries into the flashlight is oddly intense, and this same sense of accomplishment makes me wary. They’re putting me at ease. Something is going to go wrong soon. Something is waiting for me in the stock room.

    But when I shine the flashlight inside, I see only inventory. The footwear is stacked on shelves along one wall. I find the boots I like in my size. They fit as though already broken in.
    Next I go to the women’s clothing section. I’ve been wearing the same clothing for at least two weeks, and they’re thick with filth. When I pinch the fabric of my pants it crinkles and I’m pretty sure there’s a little puff of dust. I select wicking undergarments, then a stack of tops and pants. I’m having fun, almost, as I take the goods into a changing room. I’m not sure why I bother with the changing room; they’re as likely to have cameras in here as anywhere else and my modesty is long since compromised. By now they not only have me squatting and shitting on camera, they could air an entire episode of just my bodily functions.
    I close the door of the dressing room. There’s no ceiling; dim light creeps in from above, dusklike. I put my armful of clothing down on a bench, then turn—and gasp, stumbling backward in abject panic. For an instant I’m convinced I’m being attacked by an emaciated drifter.
    A mirror. Like I’d forgotten they exist. But they do, and I’m surprised by the changes I see. I step close to the mirror to inspect my face. Below the bright blue hat, my cheeks are sunken. Giant bags hang under my eyes. I’ve never been this skinny. I’ve never been this dirty. When I take off my shirts, I see my ribs peeking from beneath my bra line. My