Three months passed. The seasons didn't change on the island, but the landscape did. The settlement was no longer a cluster of rafts and makeshift tents. It was a village woven into the jungle. Huts were grown rather than built, shaped by guiding the flexible grey saplings into arches that hardened into stone over weeks. The survivors had learned the rhythm of the place. They didn't fight the land; they asked permission.
Ezra walked the perimeter at dawn. His rifle was slung over his shoulder, but he rarely carried ammunition anymore. The island didn't need bullets. It had thorns. Sharp, black thorns that grew overnight around the sensitive areas. The spring was guarded by a thicket of blue-flowered vines that hummed when strangers approached.
The survivors had changed too. Their clothes
