Smoke billowed from every direction. Screams, screams, luggage hit the man across the aisle from her. Nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. The fall, racing, rushing, bracing, clawing at the arm rest. The airline host no longer speaking calming words, only screams and prayers.<br/><br/>Kate gasped and shot up, stifling a scream but she couldn't still the pounding of her heart. Every night for the last year, she relived the plane crash that had downed the airliner over the Bermuda Triangle. She had drifted to shore on the sandy beach and when she came to, was alone on this tiny island.<br/><br/>In the past year she had found a cave, learned to make fire, (those years as a Girl Scout came in handy) and learned to fish. The island was small, she had found with a natural cistern in the rocks of the dead volcano. It rained nightly so she had limited fresh water. The palm trees provided fuel and fibers for weaving. A few items had washed ashore that came in handy but here she was, a survivor. A lone survivor.<br/><br/>Kate refused to talk to volleyballs or try to escape. She was alone and she was here until she died. Now that she was awake, she saw the sun shining and knew it was time to get up. She had a routine, rise, stir the fire, set water to boil, meditate, go exploring, fish, eat lunch, nap in the hammock on the beach, make utensils or weave, then watch the sunset from the door of her cave, watch the lightening streak the sky and then sleep. Every day. Forever. Alone.