The scary reality is, our rations have all but run out. The coconuts Beck collected from beneath the trees were a vast disappointment — we managed to bash them open against the sharp coral rocks only to find dry, inedible pulp inside. The fresh green ones remain far out of reach at the top of the palm trees, and no amount of trunk shaking seems adequate to knock them loose.
My stomach rumbles frequently as I move around the camp, clearing rocks and plant debris from the sand. I long for a rake or a broom to speed up the process. It’s shocking, the tools you take for granted when you grow up in the most consumer-friendly country in the world. I can recall very few times in my childhood when I needed something and it wasn’t already on hand. If I required an item we didn’t own, the absolute worst case scenario was a quick drive to the local superstore. Or, if things were really dire, a few clicks on a web browser and free two-day delivery, straight to my doorstep.
Nothing was out of reach. The whole world was at my disposal.
I didn’t realize how easy I had it, until I was ripped violently from that reality. How pampered and soft we humans have become, far removed from the struggles our distant ancestors faced in simpler times, before WiFi or medicine or machines. Before microwaves or lighter fluid or flashlights. Before drive-thru meals, ready to eat in five minutes or less. Before shopping malls stocked with every item imaginable.
I grew up in a world of instant gratification, member of a generation that grows impatient when our internet browsers buffer too slowly to stream the latest binge-worthy show. Here, nothing is instant or easy. There are no shortcuts, no superficial struggles. The island has stripped it all away, cut out the gratuitous like a knife paring down an apple until only the core remains.
Food. Shelter. Water.
Breathe. Sleep. Survive.
I’ve begun to experience bouts of lightheadedness whenever I move too fast. Taking slow sips of water, I tell myself it’s an ice cream frappe from my favorite restaurant back home. Thick and creamy and cold.
This would be more convincing if I wasn’t sweating so profusely in the intense heat.
Unwilling to stray too far from Ian’s side, I replenish our wood stores to keep the fire burning and sort our belongings into some semblance of order. I try not to look too closely at the disturbed patch of earth beneath a nearby palm, where Beck buried the leg.
When the tide goes out, I wander down to the exposed shallow pools at the edge of our cove, marveling at the sight of the tiny ecosystems contained within their rocky limits. Barnacles and mussels stick up like spikes. Crabs bury their bodies beneath the sand, until only their eyes are exposed. Tiny minnows dart in and out of swaying fan coral.
It’s a whole world in miniature.
I contemplate borrowing Ian’s shoes so I can walk out onto the barrier rocks around the bend of the beach, but it feels wrong to take them without his permission. I’ll have to think of something, though, because after all this time barefoot, my heels are cracked and aching. They sting a little more with each step across the hot sand.
Every so often, I glance down the stretch of beach to where Beck works. He’s shirtless, skin turning bronze beneath the beating sun. My mouth goes dry, watching the muscles in his back ripple as he drags another heavy log to form the final section of a giant H. The letter is at least a dozen feet high. Without an axe or saw, it’ll take several more days of scouring the forest for fallen branches to complete the corresponding E-L-P. I can see exhaustion gripping his every muscle as he works, but he assures me the effort is worth it in the off chance a plane flies overhead and spots our distress signal.
He doesn’t stop until it’s nearly dark. When he walks back into our camp, he looks around in surprise at the changes I’ve made in his absence. In addition to widening the perimeter and clearing away more brush, I’ve woven palm-fronds into proper sleeping pallets and placed them on either side of the fire. There’s a rain-collector strung between two trees, made with spare rope from the raft and one of the thin foil blankets. Next time a storm passes, we’ll be ready.
I sit by Ian’s side, using the knife, my dental floss, and a needle from the suture kit to hem the black pants from my backpack into a pair of shorts. I’ve cut the remnants into thin fabric strips — one holds my hair back in a high ponytail, the rest will be used as bandages when we inevitably run out of gauze.
I think Beck might fall over when he spots the bed of fresh mussels cooking slowly in the hot coals of the fire. Nearly done, they’ve begun to pop open and emanate a mouth-watering odor. My stomach growls at the prospect of a warm meal for the first time in days.
“Honey, I’m home,” he murmurs, as though he’s walked in on a 1950s housewife with dinner waiting on the table.
I laugh — actually laugh. I didn’t think I’d ever feel joy again, but there it is. At the sound, Beck’s face morphs into a softer version of his typical scowl. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s actually trying not to smile.
“Sorry it’s not a meatloaf and mashed potatoes.” I shrug. “It was the best I could do, under the circumstances.”
“It’s…” His Adam’s apple bobs. “It’s absolutely perfect.”
I avert my eyes back to the fabric in my hands. It’s safer staring at a needle than his bare chest and bronzed skin. “They should be ready soon. Just a few more minutes.”
With a tired exhale, he collapses on the pallet beside mine. I can feel his eyes on me, watching as I cut clean strips of fabric, then fold them on my growing pile. The longer the silence lingers, the harder it is to breathe.
Since we first met, the dynamic between us has altered from animosity to grudging alliance to… something indefinable. I don’t dare put a name to it, but I can feel it thrumming in the air between us.
Tension.
Like it or not, things are different now. We’ve invaded each other’s space. Slept side by side, a tangle of limbs. He’s seen my tears, absorbed my shivers, heard my sobs, held me close in a moment of weakness. He brought me back, when I feared I’d lost who I was.
Yet… we skipped all the small getting-to-know you stages of friendship. We plunged face first into the deep and, after all we’ve been through, I don’t know how to return to the shallows. How to talk about small, inconsequential things that near-strangers discuss when the silence stretches on too long. I don’t know how to ask where he grew up or if he has any pets or whether there’s someone waiting for him back home, staring at his picture in a frame with swollen red eyes, praying for a miracle.
I’m surprised how much I dislike that last thought.
“How’s he doing?” Beck asks abruptly.
I look at over Ian, still sleeping soundly. “He hasn’t woken up, but he’s holding steady for now. His pulse is stronger, his fever is down. I’m really hopeful.” My face contorts as I add, “But you probably think that’s foolish… Me, holding out hope that he’ll beat the odds and make a miraculous recovery.”
What was it he said before?