I sponge water between Ian’s sunburned lips with a wet cloth, supporting his head so fluid doesn’t collect in his lungs. Pneumonia is the last thing he needs to deal with, right now. His leg wound has worsened greatly over the last few hours. Angry red streaks of infection stretch from his shattered femur down to his toes. I recognize them.
Sepsis.
Blood poisoning.
Gangrene.
Ugly names for an even uglier reality.
Cut off from blood flow, the tissues in his leg are dying. If there’s any chance left at saving the limb, we have no choice but to take action — and soon. I know that. I just wish I felt more confident about actually doing it.
Thankfully Ian is still unconscious; I hope that means he’s been spared most of the pain of this ordeal. He looks paler than ever in the shadows of the small shelter we’ve set up at the edge of the trees. The raft is suspended at an angle several feet above our heads in a makeshift lean-to, one flank resting on the ground, the other tied to the highest branch we could reach on a nearby palm tree. It doesn’t offer much in the way of cover, but night will be here soon. Until we can rig up something more permanent, it’s better than nothing.
Ian shivers violently despite his proximity to the small fire we built using twigs, coconut husks, and the waterproof matches from our emergency pack. The temperature has dropped several degrees in the past few hours. As the shadows grow, so do my worries about hypothermia and exposure. If my years of hiking and camping have taught me anything, it’s that even the warmest summer days can drop off to become the coldest of nights. Especially if you’re sunburned, malnourished, injured, or dehydrated.
Not to mention all four at once.
I ignore the goosebumps covering my own chilled skin and focus on Ian. I’ve already layered both foil blankets over him, along with the sweatshirt from Beck’s duffle bag. Still, he shakes and shivers with fever.
“Come on,” I murmur, stroking his damp forehead. “Don’t give up on me now. Don’t leave me alone with him.”
My eyes move to the tall male form a few yards away. He’s cutting branches from one of the low-hanging palms, working like the devil himself has a whip to his back. He hasn’t spoken a word to me since our strange moment in the woods this afternoon, nor have I attempted another conversation. Even as we cleared debris, strung up the raft, and stoked the fire from sparks to a steady flame, we worked in total quiet.
Silence feels safest between us at the moment. I wrap it around me like a protective shield.
Every so often, he returns to dump a fresh load of fronds on the pile beside me. I avoid his eyes as I arrange them into a pallet beneath the lean-to, spreading the plant cuttings flat like a mattress before maneuvering Ian’s prone form onto it, one limb at a time. It’s not exactly a top of the line TempurPedic, but it should keep the sand out of his wounds and the rain off his face if we’re hit with another weather system in the night.
He lets out a small sound of pain, forehead furrowing as another violent spasm shakes his body. Guilt lumps in my throat as I tuck the thin blankets more securely around him, careful not to put pressure on his mangled leg. If he’s this cold now, what will happen when the sun goes down? Judging by its ever-sinking position over the water, that will be rather soon.
It’s odd — we spent two nights on the raft, shivering in the darkness, dozing on and off as we drifted. I was thirsty, I was cold, I was downright miserable… but, somehow, the prospect of our first night on the island feels infinitely scarier. I wrap my arms around my knees as I sit by the fire, listening to lizards rustling in the trees and wondering what other animals inhabit our new home. Hopefully, nothing with teeth or talons.
Or a taste for human blood.
Then again, the most dangerous predator of all may not be a creature in the forest. My eyes slide over to Beck like a moth drawn to an intoxicating flame. He’s walking back to me, the setting sun casting him in silhouette, his powerful arms flexing as he lugs another stack of branches. He sets them down, then sprawls out on the opposite side of our small fire with his shoulders braced against a tree trunk, a groan of fatigue rumbling deep in his chest. His eyes close as his head cranes back, exposing a tanned column of throat and a bobbing Adam’s apple.
A few days ago, I would’ve sworn this man didn’t experience emotions… but there they are on his face.
Exhaustion. Hopelessness. Anger. Sorrow. Hunger. Pain. Regret. Fear.
He has been pushed past his breaking point and perseveres regardless. It’s hard not to respect him for it. An irrepressible pang of sympathy clangs through my chest as I stare at him. Reaching into the black bag, I pull out one of our remaining ration packs and toss it in his direction. His eyes open when it lands in his lap.
“Eat something before you expire,” I suggest quietly.
He doesn’t argue. I notice his fingers shake as he tears open the foil and shoves a helping of trail mix between his lips. My own mouth fills with saliva. I’m so hungry I could cry, but we need to save the rest of our food packets. There are only a handful left.
As the sun slowly sinks toward the water’s surface, he savors his small meal. I feel his eyes on my face occasionally, studying me, but I distract myself by rooting through my backpack. There’s not much inside — what remains of our sunscreen tubes, a laughably large pack of crayons, a children’s coloring book, a small bag of toiletries, two empty soda cans, the coffee-stained outfit I wore in Boston, and my smartphone — now considerably less smart after a thorough dunking in the Pacific. Our first day on the raft, I’d foolishly hoped it might still power on. Even if it hadn’t been destroyed in the crash, I doubt there are any cell towers on this deserted island.
I layer the stained button-down blouse over my sleeveless summer dress for extra warmth, then pull the coloring book into my lap. I hold my breath as I flip open the cover. The pages are water stained and wrinkled. They crackle beneath my fingers as I turn to the only page in color. A cheerful squirrel stares back at me, meticulously shaded by a five-year-old who stayed inside the lines better than her babysitter.
Hey, Soph, can you show me how you made your flowers so pretty? Mine don’t look half as good…
I flip the book violently closed.
“It’s not your fault, you know.”
His voice hits me like a shockwave. I glance up to find him staring at the book in my hands.
“What?” I ask, barely audible.
“The little girl. It’s not your fault, what happened to her.”
I blink hard to keep tears at bay. “I could’ve tried harder. I should’ve held on tighter.”
“Maybe.” He shrugs. “Or… maybe then you’d be dead too.”
“It was my job to keep her safe and I failed. I failed her—” The words break off on a half-sob.