There are two men and a tattered book stranded on the island with me. Adam, my least favorite survivor, swings lazily in a hammock that he's made out of palm fronds. His long blond hair is tied back with a shoelace. His face is hidden behind the collection of Jane Austen stories.

    "It's my turn for the book."

    "Is not."

    My voice rises to bitch pitch. "You had it all day yesterday. It's your turn to do breakfast."

    "I'm not doing breakfast."

    Benji, third member of our ménage á trois, looks up from the small fire he is tending but says nothing, so I do.

    "It's your day, Adam, either you do it or you don't get anything else."

    Adam brushes a long hair out of his olive-colored eyes. "Who are you, my mother?" He throws a piece of coconut shell at me. "I read so I don't resort to cannibalism."

    "You read because there're no mirrors around."

    "You saying I'm vain?"

    "You only like chick-lit because you think you see yourself."

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