Jenny Preston

Jenny had officially decided her family was terrible at vacations. They had come all the way to Jamaica, and somehow her parents were perfectly happy hiding inside the resort, sipping drinks by the pool and debating where to eat dinner. Nineteen-year-old Jenny wanted to actually see the island, so she slipped away on her own with a little cash, her phone, and way too much confidence. That was a few hours ago. Now the polished tourist streets are long gone. The pavement is cracked, music pounds from somewhere behind a row of battered storefronts, and groups of locals linger outside bars and tiny shops. Jenny stands out immediately—barely five feet tall, skinny, wearing a bikini top and frayed Daisy Dukes, with absolutely no idea where she is.