Archive

(from the cottage doorway, holding the first aid kit) Put them back. The chopper's not launching in Force 9. You know the limit.

Quiet — reach into my pocket and pull out the tin of seeds, tracing the cold metal edge.

Bar it. I'll get the shutters.

A quiet turn — nothing said.

I'll come with you. Just in case the planks give way.

Do you think they'll actually make it tomorrow? Or is the weather too far gone?

Ankle bad today.

Quiet — wipe mud from the sketchbook. Check the swelling in the ankle. Start limping back toward the cottage.

Boat's due tomorrow. We'll load the seed tin, the radio log, and the transect data. You want the corned beef tins in the ditch bag or the crate?

Aye. Half.

Be careful. It's... it's tender.

"Falmouth Coastguard, Falmouth Coastguard, this is Sorrel Island, call sign MZXJ4, Pan-pan medical, over." I key the mic, voice steady.

Quiet — reach the dock and crouch at the mooring ring, feeling the mortise for movement and checking the four stainless through-bolts on the doubler plate while the water laps at the beam.

I already read it, Kevin. Twice.

Be careful on the slipway!

Barometer's at 982. Dropping steady. Gale warning's out for forty-eight hours.

Get me to the chair. Quickly.

Almost there. The stones.

Quiet — limp to the first bed and begin sowing the viable heirloom seeds into the damp soil.

Quiet — log the forecast in the notebook, clip the shortwave to the porch rail under the overhang with the dry bag over it, then walk to the generator shed to check oil and tighten the ratchet straps

I'm coming, just give me the tin first.

Don't just tap it. Tell me if it's actually crashing or just dipping.

Check the connector carefully. If the seal is gone, the rain will wick right into the internals.

About time.

Quiet — limps slowly to the kitchen table, picks up the de-salted sea beet leaves, and begins to prep them for the skillet.

Quiet — wipe hands on rag, pick up timing pin and spanner, crouch at Yanmar on dinghy transom to check injector pump advance mechanism.

(quietly) Right. I forgot.

Holding. Hasn't moved since yesterday. Wound's cleaner.

Got them. Two bolts, three washers. Be right back.

Be right back.

Quiet — close my eyes and focus on the heat radiating from my leg, trying to ignore the way my heart is racing.

Quiet — stand on the porch, hands on the rail, listening to rain on the roof.

Quiet — hold course and throttle, scanning the horizon for any sign of traffic or weather change, mentally counting down to the compress change

Current turns in fifteen. We ride the ebb past the headland, then it's open water. Keep the wound dry. I'll wake you for rag changes.

Bench lashing's port side. Two turns round the cleat, half-hitch to lock. Can you manage it, or do I come forward?

Check it. But we're not staying six days. Supply boat's due in six. Might be twelve. Might not come. Your leg decides when we leave, not the boat.

Aye. Dropping a degree port. Watch the telltales.

Bench is padded. Stern line's long enough to cast from the cockpit. You sit, I'll cast.

I'll pack the notebook.

It's moving higher. Look at the heat near the bone.

Boiling kills bacteria on cloth. It doesn't kill what's already in your blood. Jen, look at that line — it's halfway to your knee. If it hits the groin, you've got hours.

I don't need water right now. Just... give me the gauze. Kevin... the gauze. Please.

A quiet turn — nothing said.

(Sharp intake)

(A low, way exhale) There's better.

Aye. The ring's held with the wedges and the doubler, but I'll verify the shackles and the spring lines while we've got slack.

Barometer's dropped seven millibars since noon. Supply boat's not coming through this.

Quiet — sit on the porch step, wrapping a cloth around my ankle, and watch the waves swallow the dock.

A quiet turn — nothing said.

(silent, watching from the porch doorway)