You have the luxury of blindly throwing a dart at a map and traveling to the place the dart lands . One day the dart keeps landing in one specific country , no matter how many times you throw it .

Mr. Fitzgerald opened his eyes. Not particularly thrilled about what he saw, the man squeezed them shut again. 
 
 “ Stanley? ” he said, “ What is on my face? ” 
 
 The Irishman ’ s reassuring voice, as always, was quick to reply. “ They appear to be fire ants, sir. ” 
 
 Body tense, Mr. Fitzgerald opened his eyes, slower this time. The searing afternoon sun shone through a small gap in a layer of thick foliage above. The dense canopy of thousands of leaves created a lovely shaded environment for the swarms of gnats hovering in opaque clouds just above ground level. The air was sticky. Mr. Fitzgerald stifled a gag as he felt a line of grape sized insects crawl up his cheek, just outside his field of vision. He cleared his throat, quickly raising a hand and wiping the ants off the side of his face. 
 
 “ Where am I, Stanley? ” 
 
 “ We are currently residing in the beautiful country of Tiagara. We managed to cross the border just minutes before we suffered our crash landing. ” 
 
 “ Crash landing? ” Mr. Fitzgerald pushed himself to a sitting position, head thumping. It felt like someone had slammed it in a car door. He winced. “ Stanley? ” 
 
 Mr. Fitzgerald ’ s butler hunched a few feet away, gently fanning a faintly glowing pile of twigs. He had removed his suit jacket and was now wearing just his dress shirt, one sleeve torn entirely off, presumably to start his fire. Glancing up at him, Stanley gestured to his left. “ We seem to have gotten ourselves into a bit of trouble, sir. ” 
 
 Mr. Fitzgerald wrenched his head around to look where Stanley had pointed. A mud-stained heap of metal was lodged in the middle of a wide river. The tail fin of his private jet. The water crashed into the shrapnel with a light roar. 
 
 He looked back down at the palm of his hand. A small mosquito was slowly swelling up with his blood. “ Why am I here, Stanley? ” 
 
 Stanley grabbed a handful of leaves from the forest floor and fed them one by one into the tiny flame. “ You suffered quite a bit of head trauma, sir. I am not surprised you are having trouble remembering. Please, just rest for now. ” 
 
 Mr. Fitzgerald felt a flare of anger squeeze his head painfully. “ Why am I on the floor of some filthy rain forest getting eaten alive by insects? ” He shook his hand, but the bug had latched on and wasn ’ t letting go. 
 
 “ Well, sir, as you may recall, you were looking to do a bit of traveling and had me string up a map of the world to help you decide. ” 
 
 “ Right, ” said Mr. Fitzgerald, attempting to grab at the mosquito with his other hand. “ I threw a dart to see where I would go. ” 
 
 “ That ’ s correct, sir. That dart landed on the Western coast of the African continent. At first glance it seemed we were taking a trip to the Republic of the Congo, but upon closer inspection, the dart had landed on the tiniest sliver of a country. ” He waved a hand. “ Tiagara. We were puzzled, as neither of us had ever heard of such a country. ” 
 
 Mr. Fitzgerald frowned, gently flicking the mosquito on his palm. Its abdomen had now swelled up to the size of an almond. 
 
 “ Puzzled, yet decidedly un-intrigued, you decided to give the dart another toss. You somehow managed to hit this country dead-on once again. Best dart player in Dublin couldn ’ t have made that shot if he tried. ” Having run out of leaves, Stanley began plucking twigs from a nearby bush. “ The second time you hit it you were dumbfounded. The third time, you were speechless. The fourth, legitimately afraid. And the fifth, ” he snapped a twig, “ you were manic. You had me bring in a new map, new darts, you even spun a globe once or twice. Every time landing on— “ 
 
 “ Tiagara. ” The mosquito burst, spraying blood onto Mr. Fitzgerald ’ s white suit. Grimacing, he smeared his hand down the leg of his matching white slacks. “ When can we leave? ” 
 
 “ That might be an issue, sir. ” 
 
 Mr. Fitzgerald ’ s heart pounded audibly. “ Where are the pilots? The rest of the plane? ” 
 
 Stanley moved his head away from his campfire, then sighed. “ I ’ m afraid Misters Browning and Skipfield did not survive the crash. The section of the plane containing the cockpit was torn apart by the river, along with our emergency satellite beacon and food supply. ” 
 
 Mr. Fitzgerald gritted his teeth. He cradled his head in his hands, trying to ease his awful headache. “ Do you know how it happened? ” 
 
 Stanley shrugged. “ I ’ m clueless, sir. Everything seemed to be operating normally, and then… ” He curved a hand through the air. “ The engines cut out and we fell. ” 
 
 Mr. Fitzgerald moaned and rolled over, curling into a ball on the muddy ground. He began to rock back and forth. 
 
 “ You ’ re taking this well, sir. Now just focus and take deep breaths. Remember what Dr. Werth said. You are in control— “ 
 
 Mr. Fitzgerald let out a scream of bloody rage. “ Are you kidding me? ” He flailed his arms and legs, pounding on the ground and scattering lines of ants. “ I ’ m going to die in the middle of the jungle? After everything I ’ ve been through, I ’ m going to die in some stupid plane crash? ” 
 
 Stanley raised his voice in a mild panic. “ The fire, sir, mind the fire! ” 
 
 “ This isn ’ t fair! This isn ’ t fair! ” 
 
 “ Sir, ” Stanley said, covering the wavering flame with his hands, “ remember what Dr. Werth told you. Fits of rage like this are exactly what he wants you to avoid. ” 
 
 “ I hate Dr. Werth, and I hate you, Stanley! ” He gave a wordless roar of frustration. “ Just do me a favor and kill me now! Kill me now! ” He swiped the air around his head wildly. “ If these flying hellbeasts don ’ t kill me first! ” His head felt like it was being attacked with a jackhammer, and realizing this fact sent him into a secondary tantrum. After a few more seconds of senseless thrashing, he lay prone in the dirt, chest heaving. 
 
 “ That ’ s it. Take it easy. ” Stanley raised a hand, squinting up at the sun. “ Something tells me you will be needing your strength. ” 
 
 Mr. Fitzgerald lay with his eyes closed for a few minutes, listening to the humming of insects, the calls of unseen birds, and the rush of the nearby river. Was this really how he would die? No one else knew about this spur-of-the-moment vacation, and even if they did, no one would care enough to come looking for him. Suddenly, overwhelming fatigue washed over the man. It had been nighttime when he had first fallen asleep on the jet, and he hadn ’ t eaten anything since then. Stanley must have been tending to him since last night. 
 
 Stanley. Had Stanley saved him from the crash? He rolled his head over to stare at the Irishman. 
 
 Meeting his eyes, Stanley smiled reassuringly, then resumed tending his fire. 
 
 “ Stanley, I… ” Mr. Fitzgerald cleared his throat. It felt raw. “ What…are you working on now? ” 
 
 “ Well sir, we need a fire if we want to drink any of the river water. I found a shard of flint over by those rocks and used my cufflinks to light up some of this dry wood. ” 
 
 Mr. Fitzgerald furrowed his brow. “ How do you know… ” 
 
 “ How to survive? ” Stanley shrugged. “ I guess I ’ ve worked with my hands for most of my life. Went camping a few times as a kid. Truth is, I am mostly winging it here. ” 
 
 “ I see. ” Mr. Fitzgerald tried not to seem too impressed. He slapped at the exposed skin of his neck. “ And can you do anything about these dreadful insects? ” 
 
 “ The fire should help with that, sir. The smoke will hopefully drive some of these bloodsuckers away. ” 
 
 Mr. Fitzgerald relaxed his body, not wanting to spend the energy to move a muscle. He became aware of a dull pain in his gut. “ What about food, Stanley? What am I going to eat? ” 
 
 “ Beef wellington should be up in a minute. ” 
 
 Mr. Fitzgerald perked his head up to see Stanley shoot him an amused grin. 
 
 “ I hate you, Stanley. ” 
 
 “ Of course, sir. ” 
 
 Mr. Fitzgerald leaned back and stared up into the shadowy canopy. He was still having trouble believing this was actually happening. A plane crash? Really? He heard about things like this happening on the news, but—well, they would never actually happen to him, right? 
 
 A rustling of movement in the trees above caught his attention. A large silhouette swung from one tree to another, leaving the thick branches of the canopy trees swaying. 
 
 “ Stanley! ” He sat up, pulling his legs up to his chest. “ Did you see that—that animal? ” He pointed up into the trees, scanning the canopy for further signs of movement. 
 
 “ Shh, ” said Stanley reassuringly, “ Try and relax, sir. This fire will scare away most of the wildlife around here. ” 
 
 “ I ’ m not joking, Stanley! That thing must have been as big as a man! I— “ Mr. Fitzgerald inhaled a large gnat and began hacking into his sleeve. 
 
 Stanley moved to block his fire from Mr. Fitzgerald ’ s frenzied coughing. “ Please, sir. Calm down. You ’ re exhausted, starving, and dehydrated. The last thing you need right now is to get yourself worked up. ” 
 
 Mr. Fitzgerald nodded. “ Yes, yes, you ’ re right, of course… ” he mumbled. He lay his head back down on a patch of grass, wrapped his hands around his neck for protection from those horrid insects, and closed his eyes. *Remember what Dr. Werth said, * he thought to himself, pressing a finger against his wrist. *Get that heart rate down. * Actually, in the shade, the weather was quite nice. It reminded him of evenings reclining out on the balcony back in Florida. Ignoring the mosquitos, he focused on breathing at a relaxed, healthy pace. 
 
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