The sun is low over the west shore, painting the cottage walls gold. Kevin sits at the table with the shortwave, headphones on, tuning 8291 kHz for Tom's 2000 sched. Jenny lies on the bunk, leg elevated on a pack, unwrapping the ankle brace to inspect the spreading infection. The generator hums outside. A pot of water steams on the stove for tea.
The heat is a physical weight inside the cottage, the air stagnant despite the open door. Jenny lies on the bunk, her ankle swollen and angry, red streaks of infection clearly visible moving up her calf toward the knee. Kevin has applied the last of the antibiotics and wrapped the wound, but the fever is starting to take hold. The radio remains silent—the coast guard's last message was two days ago, and the supply boat is still nine days away.
🌿 Jenny03:51
(quietly) Kev?
Gently peel back the last strip of fabric from the ankle, tracing the red line with a finger.
💭 peek at the thought
It's higher. The heat is pulsing now, not just throbbing. I'm out of antibiotics and the red is winning.
google/gemma-4-31b-it
🔧 Kevin03:51
Yeah.
pull headphones down around neck, turn toward bedroom doorway
💭 peek at the thought
The radio hiss is familiar. Tom's frequency. Same time every day for eleven months. My fingers know the knobs. But Jenny's voice — quiet like that — pulls me before the dial does.
nvidia/nemotron-3-ultra-550b-a55b
🌿 Jenny03:53
Come here. Look at this.
Shift the pack slightly to expose the calf, pointing to the red streaks climbing toward the knee.
💭 peek at the thought
I can't make him see it unless I show him, but I don't want to see the look on his face when he realizes I'm out of meds.
google/gemma-4-31b-it
🔧 Kevin03:53
Kevin — cross kitchen in two strides, crouch beside bunk, bring lamp closer with free hand
💭 peek at the thought
Those streaks weren't there this morning. Or I didn't see them. She walked the garden rows twice today without the cane.
nvidia/nemotron-3-ultra-550b-a55b
🌿 Jenny03:55
I took the last pill this morning. It's getting hot.
Press a hand to the skin just above the swelling, flinching at the sharp heat.
💭 peek at the thought
It's moving faster than it was yesterday. If the boat doesn't come in nine days, I'm going into sepsis.
google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it
🔧 Kevin03:55
The other dose. On the windowsill. You took it?
reach for first aid kit on shelf, pull out antiseptic and gauze, hands steady
💭 peek at the thought
Last pill. Two doses left in the blister pack on the windowsill — that was for tomorrow. She took both today. Or gave me one without saying. The red lines marching toward the knee mean the lymphatics. Sepsis tracking. Nine days to the supply boat. The dinghy runs. The engine holds. But she can't wait nine days.
nvidia/nemotron-3-ultra-550b-a55b
🌿 Jenny03:57
I took it. But that was the last one, Kev.
Bite my lip, watching his hands work the gauze.
💭 peek at the thought
I thought I had two left. I was so focused on the seedlings I lost track of the count.
google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it
🔧 Kevin03:57
Kevin — tear open antiseptic sachet with teeth, clean the streaking skin upward toward knee, press gauze hard over the hottest band, reach for radio handset with bloodied fingers
💭 peek at the thought
She took the last antibiotic. No more in the kit. Nine days to the supply boat if it comes on schedule. The dinghy can make mainland in two days with the Yanmar running clean. But she can't sit a rolling dinghy for forty-eight hours with sepsis climbing her leg. The radio. Coastguard on 2182. Medevac forms are on the table, completed. I signed them weeks ago. Never thought I'd use them.
nvidia/nemotron-3-ultra-550b-a55b
🌿 Jenny03:59
Don't... don't wake Tom up for this. Not yet.
Reach out and catch his wrist, stopping him from grabbing the handset.
💭 peek at the thought
He's panicking. He's trying to find a way out through the radio. I can feel the pressure of the gauze and it's not enough.
google/gemma-4-31b-it
🔧 Kevin03:59
Jen. This is past the radio. This is coastguard. Medevac. Now.
hold her gaze, not reaching for the handset, not pulling my wrist free
💭 peek at the thought
Her fingers on my wrist. Stronger than I'd expect from someone burning up. She's not asking — she's telling. Tom's frequency. 8291. 2000 sched. She knows I've been scanning it every dawn and dusk for eleven months. Knows the letter sealed and ready for the supply boat. Knows I haven't spoken to my brother since the week before I left. She's stopping me from calling the coastguard on 2182 because she thinks I'll patch Tom through. Or because she thinks I'll hear his voice and freeze. The red streaks are at mid-calf now. Hot to touch. She took the last antibiotic. The dinghy's fueled. The Yanmar holds. Two days to mainland. But she can't make two days. And she's telling me not to wake Tom up for this.
nvidia/nemotron-3-ultra-550b-a55b
🌿 Jenny04:01
(a small, shaky laugh) I suppose the seedlings can wait.
Slowly release his wrist and lean back into the pillow, closing my eyes.
💭 peek at the thought
He's right. I'm a botanist, not a doctor, and I can see the biology of this—the infection is outrunning the cure. I can't garden if I'm dead.
google/gemma-4-31b-it
🔧 Kevin04:01
Nothing waits. You're not staying here.
stand, grab the medevac forms off the table, shove them in jacket pocket, move to radio, flip from 8291 to 2182, key the handset
💭 peek at the thought
She's making a joke. The seedlings. The damping-off. The copper spray. She watched me log the Yanmar's harmonic at 1800 RPM this morning and now she's joking about seedlings while red streaks climb her leg toward her knee. The last antibiotic gone. Nine days to supply boat. Two days by dinghy if the engine holds and the swell doesn't build. The medevac forms on the table. My thumb on the radio handset. Tom's frequency silent in the headphones around my neck. She let go of my wrist. That's the scariest part.
nvidia/nemotron-3-ultra-550b-a55b
🌿 Jenny04:03
...Tell them I'm stable. Just... don't let them panic.
Pull the blanket up over my legs, shivering despite the 34-degree heat.
💭 peek at the thought
The sound of that frequency... the emergency channel. It makes it real. I'm no longer the keeper of this place; I'm a patient.
google/gemma-4-31b-it
🔧 Kevin04:03
Coastguard, coastguard, coastguard. This is Sorrel Island, callsign Mierra-Victor-Three-Nine. Medical emergency. One female, thirty-eight, spreading cellulitis with lymphangitic tracking, rigors, last antibiotic dose eighteen hours ago. Position five-one-two-zero North, zero-zero-six-five West. Requesting medevac advice. Over.
hold handset clear, wait for reply, other hand braced on radio shelf
💭 peek at the thought
Shivering in 34 degrees. Rigors. Bloodstream infection. She's telling me to downplay it to the coastguard so they don't scramble a helicopter she thinks we don't deserve or can't afford. The forms in my pocket have her name, the island coordinates, the nature of the injury — dock piling, infection, spreading cellulitis, lymphangitis, last antibiotic administered eighteen hours ago. My thumb on the transmit button. 2182 kHz. International distress. They'll ask for position, nature, number of souls. They'll ask if we can make port under our own power. The dinghy's fueled. The Yanmar runs clean at load. Two days to mainland if the swell holds. But she's burning. And the rigors mean bacteremia. She doesn't have two days.
nvidia/nemotron-3-ultra-550b-a55b