text: Despite the inglorious shelter and the lack of an adequate sleeping bag, you sleep soundly anyway. Perhaps too soundly, because by the time your eyes open the sun has already risen and is making its upward climb into the sky. Last night's fire is now a pile of cooling ashes, and the drumming has long since ceased. Blue skies overhead promise a glorious day ahead, as far as the weather is concerned.
  
  Then something catches your eye: on the tree where you carved your initials below those of your old adversary, there is now a freshly-carved MN. As hard as you find it to believe, that could only be Meredith Nowitki! Could it possibly be that she passed through while you were still sleeping — toting all of your brand-new gear — and carved her name in the tree just to taunt you? You step out onto the narrow footpath and sure enough, there are now new boot prints in the mud, left by someone with feet much smaller than your own.
  
  How infuriating! How aggravating! How humiliating! Not only did she steal your stuff, but she was following behind you so that you could lead her to the Stone of Vul-Kar! Why else would she be here? And now that you have overindulged in sleep, she has passed you by. What kind of a headstart does she have on you? Minutes? Hours?
  
  Extremely displeased with yourself, you hurriedly take down the tarp and pack up the few things you have. You remember well Berringer's rage yesterday morning when he learned that Meredith, his erstwhile "acquisition" from the Boston Globe, had deserted him — and you can only imagine how much worse it would be if you let her get to his prize first. You are so angry that you start to contemplate ways that gun of his might come in useful after all.
  
  The best you can do for breakfast is a couple more pepperoni sticks; maybe tonight, with Meredith permanently out of the way, you'll have all of your stuff back so you can enjoy something a little less gas-inducing. Then you shoulder the black book bag and set off for the mountain.
  
  Her tracks are easy to follow, although in retrospect so were yours, too, probably. Beyond the campsite, the rugged footpath continues climbing through the high-elevation brush, the mud softer than ever, like black cookie batter. Meredith must have been inspired to move swiftly, because you see no sign of her. Who would believe that someone who spent the last three years trailing Walter Berringer around a baseball stadium in high heels would be so adept at climbing a mountain?
  
  But then the trail runs cold when the vegetation ends and the way forward is nothing but bare rock. You can trace Meredith's steps only for about six paces, where the mud from her boots left an obvious track, but then nothing after that. You're not even sure where the actual trail goes; the best you can do is continue climbing at the same angle, and hope that some sign presents itself.
  
  What you find a moment later is a wall of rock blocking your way. Looking back, you can still see where the trail exited the forest, with a direct line of travel leading to where you are now. To the best of your tracking ability, this is where you're supposed to be, so you scout your options. By circling a bit to the left, you find a rope ladder dangling down the rock face — the surest sign that you are on the correct trail. But the fibrous rope looks old and weathered, and you are not sure you can trust it to hold your weight. The only other option would be to scale the rock face itself. The wall isn't quite vertical, and the surface seems coarsely textured with just enough subtle imperfections to make footholds and handholds theoretically plentiful, but you can't tell for sure from below.
  
  __________________________________________________
  > use the ladder.
  You have to assume that Meredith used the ladder, and the ropes might not be as weak as you fear. Yes, it looks old, but that doesn't automatically mean the ladder won't hold. And climbing it will certainly be much faster than trying to scale the rock wall.
  
  So you grab hold of the parallel ropes and hoist yourself onto the first rung. It holds, although you still see a dozen different ways this endeavor could go wrong. The ropes do feel sturdy, but damp; the rungs are just sticks, and you inspect each one for signs of weakness before you advance one more step. Overall the ladder is fifty feet tall, and it flops about against the rock as you slowly climb up. The ropes are holding, which is good, because until you reach the top of the small cliff they will be the only things keeping you from falling.
  
  "Well there you are, sleepy head!"
  
  With a sinking feeling in your stomach, you look up. Meredith is at the top of the ladder, sticking her head out over the edge.
  
  "I tried not to wake you," she continues. "You looked so comfy under that blue tarp thingy."
  
  "Meredith, what the heck are you doing here?" you say. Of all the places she picked to have this confrontation; you are still twenty feet shy of the top, with thirty feet of space below you. The rope ladder refuses to stay still, swaying with every little movement of your body.
  
  "I was waiting for you, of course," she says. "I knew you'd be coming this way sooner or later. I just didn't realize it would be this late."
  
  "No, I meant what are doing here, on Woban Island?"
  
  "For the same thing you are, obviously. Can't a girl treat herself every now and then? That gem will make me wealthier than it will make you — you let yourself get hired by the wrong collector. I needed you yesterday to point me in the right direction, but now that I see the way to go, your services are no longer required."
  
  "Meredith, we need to talk," you say.
  
  "No, I don't think so. I like this knife I found in your pack, by the way."
  
  She holds out the six-inch knife you've been keeping in your backpack for years; although you don't use it often, you are pretty good at keeping the blade sharpened. It disgusts you to see her brandishing it now.
  
  "I was playing with this earlier," Meredith continues "and I'm certain this thing could cut through these ropes like butter. Here, let's find out."
  
  There are lots of things about this situation that you don't understand, but you know she is right about the knife. As she applies it to the top of the rope ladder, you wonder if it would be better to try and climb up or down in the seconds before she slices through the two bundles of fiber. Ultimately it doesn't matter; when both ropes are cut, you experience the most horrific moment ever as you tumble toward the rocks below. The ground there is slanted, and you know there is zero chance you will stick the landing. Even if you do survive the initial fall — and then the two-hundred-foot tumble that is sure to follow — there won't be too much left of you.
  
  THE END