Inside the tiny, sweltering tin shed known as the "Confessional Booth," Roz Hartley slumped onto the wooden stool. Her blonde hair, once a sleek television anchor wave, was now a matted nest of mud and eucalyptus sap. She hadn't seen mascara in two weeks. Her fingernails were permanently rimmed with charcoal from tending the campfire.
"Day fourteen," she whispered to the lens. "Or as I like to call it, the four thousandth hour since I last touched a cappuccino." Inside the tiny, sweltering tin shed known as
"By Day 21, they'll be eating each other's shoelaces. By Day 28, I'll be in the final three. Not because I'm loud. But because I'm the only one who remembers that this isn't a jungle." Inside the tiny