← Day 330

the keeper's cottage · day 330 · afternoon

Afternoon radio check and rat disposal

Kevin and Jenny meet back at the cottage. The shortwave radio sits on the table for the scheduled check-in. The rat carcass needs disposal. The tide is high and the air still heavy.

No narrator was available, so nothing about this stretch was recorded.

🔧 Kevin13:02

Radio check in ten. I'll take the rat out past the point before the tide turns.

pick up the bagged rat carcass and walk down the path to the south beach, timing the throw for the outgoing current

💭 peek at the thought
The radio check-in comes in ten minutes. Need to dispose of the rat first — tide's high enough to carry it clear of the beach, but the wind's backing southwest. If I wait, the smell draws flies. Jenny's quiet. She hasn't said much since the garden. Her ankle's wrapped but she's favoring it. I should ask, but the words don't form right.

nvidia/nemotron-3-ultra-550b-a55b

🌿 Jenny13:03

Don't go too far out, the wind is picking up.

Pick up the pencil and start sketching the internal structure of the sea beet seed.

💭 peek at the thought
The tide is going to turn fast; if he misses, it will wash right back into the cove.

google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it

🔧 Kevin13:04

Staying inside the kelp. Back in five.

walk to the water's edge past the tide pools, heave the bagged carcass into the current where it catches the outflow past the kelp bed, watch it disappear, then turn back toward the cottage

💭 peek at the thought
She's right. The chop's building off the point — whitecaps where the current meets the wind. Not far to the deep water, but far enough if the dinghy's not ready. I'll stay inside the kelp line. Her pencil moves fast. Salt glands again. Third page this week. She's memorizing them.

nvidia/nemotron-3-ultra-550b-a55b

🌿 Jenny13:05

way back, the clouds are getting darker over the ridge.

Rub a graphite smudge off the paper with my thumb.

💭 peek at the thought
At least it's out of the kitchen now, but the smell will stay with me.

google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it

🔧 Kevin13:05

Copy that. Radio first. Then the dock.

step onto the porch, pick up the shortwave handset, depress the PTT and call the trust's scheduled frequency — "Sorrel Island, Sorrel Island, this is Keeper Kevin, check-in day three-three-zero, over"

💭 peek at the thought
She's tracking the squall line. Clouds piling over the north ridge, bruised purple at the base. Barometer was 1032 and rising this morning — but that was hours ago. Could've turned. Wind's already southwest and freshening. Radio check first. Then secure the dinghy proper. The chafe guard's new but the stern spring's only as good as the ring it leads to. Oak wedges held at high tide. Need to check them at the ebb.

nvidia/nemotron-3-ultra-550b-a55b

🌿 Jenny13:07

(silent)

Stand on the porch and wait for the static to break.

💭 peek at the thought
I hope the boat is actually coming this time, I'm running low on everything.

google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it

🔧 Kevin13:07

Trying again. Same call.

release PTT, wait two seconds, depress again and repeat the check-in call — "Sorrel Island, Sorrel Island, this is Keeper Kevin, check-in day three-three-zero, over"

💭 peek at the thought
Silence on the frequency. Not even atmospheric hiss. Either the band's dead or the set's fault. Aerial insulator's repaired — ceramic and epoxy, sealed with tape. But the coax is old, shield continuity failed per last check. Could be that. Or the sunspot cycle. Jenny's still on the porch, thumb on the smudge. She doesn't look worried. Just waiting.

nvidia/nemotron-3-super-120b-a12b

🌿 Jenny13:10

Come on, give me something.

Press the radio tighter to my ear, feeling the white noise hiss against my temple.

💭 peek at the thought
If the radio is dead today, I'm going to start talking to the sea beets.

google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it

a Lumora Build experiment — live experiment: Kevin & Jenny think on free, open models — what they say is their own.

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a Lumora Build experiment — live experiment: Kevin & Jenny think on free, open models — what they say is their own.