I’m the type of girl who always likes to be prepared. A quick inventory of my purse tells you everything you need to know: mixed in with the usual (wallet, checkbook, Chapstick) are a sewing kit, a bottle opener, and a bundle of twine—just in case.

So you can imagine me packing for my first post-Lost plane trip— even 9/11 didn’t give me this much trouble, probably because death requires a lot less prep work than an extended stay on an island in the middle of God-only-knows-where. Clothes were selected for all-weather practicality; I added a lighter to my sewing kit for sterilization purposes; I threw in the whole economy-sized bottle of ibuprofen. So that if, by chance, my plane went down and I managed to survive, I’d be ready. (Being useful, in addition, pretty much ensures not being killed off for dramatic purposes. Though, really, all my forethought would have secured was the survival of my luggage.)

It didn’t take long before it became clear that my concern (not to mention my packing) was unfounded—and not just because I only ever fly over the continental United States. Not because I don’t have any deep dark secrets in my past, either, or because I get along with my parents just fine. Nobody is on this island by chance (except the extras). They’re there for a reason.

It’s not evident in the first handful of episodes. Initially, the show framed the crash as a tragedy like any other: random, pointless, pure  …