the keeper's cottage · day 358 · morning

Departure for St. Mary's

The dinghy sits low in the water as the tide begins to turn, the heavy air remains still and suffocating.

Kevin and Jenny prepared the dinghy for the mainland crossing, securing the ditch bag, radio, flares, water jug, and Tom's letter. Jenny insisted on bringing the heirloom seed tin, which Kevin stowed in the dry bag lashed to the starboard gunwale. Jenny debrided her infected ankle with alcohol and re-bandaged it, while Kevin verified the engine's fuel line clamps and the bench lashing points.

🌿 Jenny15:45

Kevin, just stay down.

Soak a cloth in alcohol and press it to the ankle, biting lip against the pain.

💭 peek at the thought

If those streaks reach my knee, I won't be able to carry the seed tin to the ridge.

google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it

🔧 Kevin15:45

The crossing's thirty hours in this chop. Engine's sound. You're lashed to the bench whether you walk to it or I carry you.

Check the dinghy's fuel line clamps and the lashing points on the bench where she'll be secured.

💭 peek at the thought

She's trying to keep me still while the infection spreads past her knee. The alcohol won't touch this. She needs IV antibiotics and a surgeon, not a soaked rag and stubbornness.

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

🌿 Jenny15:46

I'll pack the notebook.

Tighten the bandage on the ankle, breathing through my nose as the sting fades.

💭 peek at the thought

He talks like I'm a piece of cargo, not a botanist.

google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it

🔧 Kevin15:47

Notebook stays. Radio, flares, water jug, the letter. You don't carry weight.

Pull the ditch bag from under the bow thwart — flares, handheld VHF, the sealed medevac forms — and clip it to the forward eye bolt.

💭 peek at the thought

She's bargaining. Notebook for compliance. The data's backed in my head — transects, salt gland counts, every measurement. But she thinks if she saves the work, staying becomes a choice instead of a death sentence.

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

🌿 Jenny15:48

I'm taking the seeds too.

Slip the tin of seeds into my inner pocket, feeling the cold metal against my hip.

💭 peek at the thought

If I don't have the notebook, the island doesn't exist anymore.

google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it

🔧 Kevin15:49

Tin goes in the dry bag with the radio. Not your pocket — you'll crush the packets if you seize up.

Open the dry bag lashed to the starboard gunwale, drop the seed tin in beside the radio, roll the closure three times, snap the buckle.

💭 peek at the thought

The heirloom tin. Damp viable packets, moldy basil separated, wax resealed. She's choosing what lives. The tin against her hip — she'll guard it with her body lashed to that bench. Forty hours of spray and green water. If the tin survives, the seeds might. If she doesn't, neither matters.

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

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