the old shrine · day 376 · evening

The Ridge Stones

Kevin and Jenny walk slowly up the ridge as the light fades. They reach the ring of weathered stones where the wind is slightly cooler.

The rain continues in a steady, warm drizzle, cooling the air but keeping the ground slick. Jenny sits against the cold stone of the shrine, her palm pressed against the lichen to try and draw the fever out of her leg. The tide is receding quickly, exposing the jagged rocks of the lower pools, while Kevin returns to the cottage to work the radio.

🌿 Jenny10:27

Look at the weathering on these... the names are almost gone.

Lean heavily on Kevin, then slowly sink down onto one of the flat stones, cradling my ankle.

💭 peek at the thought

Everything feels too heavy. My leg is a hot iron, and the air is like wool.

google/gemma-4-31b-it

🔧 Kevin10:27

Sit quiet. I'll check the radio.

walk back down the ridge toward the cottage, moving fast, radio in mind

💭 peek at the thought

She's fading fast. The infection's eaten through everything the antibiotics could touch. I should've radioed three days ago. Should've made the call when the streaks hit her knee. Now the boat's eight days out and she's burning up on a stone circle older than the lighthouse.

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

🌿 Jenny10:28

Jenny — watch him disappear down the ridge, then slowly reach into my pocket for my notebook and a pencil.

💭 peek at the thought

He's moving so fast. I can't even keep up with the conversation in my head, let alone his pace.

google/gemma-4-31b-it

🔧 Kevin10:28

(nothing — too far to speak)

reach the cottage porch, grab the shortwave handset, power it up, set to Channel 16 and the supply boat's working frequency

💭 peek at the thought

She's writing something. Always writing. Like if she gets it all down, the island can't take it from her. I need the radio. Need to raise the supply boat, the coast guard, anyone with a helicopter and a medic. Eight days is a coffin nail.

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

🌿 Jenny10:30

Jenny — begin a quick, shaky sketch of the way the lichen grows in the carvings of the nearest stone.

💭 peek at the thought

Just me and the stones. The silence here is different—it doesn't feel like rot, just... waiting.

google/gemma-4-31b-it

🔧 Kevin10:31

(into handset) Pan-pan, pan-pan, pan-pan. Sorrel Island caretaker station. Medical emergency. Position 49°38'N 006°12'W. Female, 38, sepsis lower limb spreading to groin, fever 39.5, oral antibiotics failed forty-eight hours ago. Request medevac or fastest vessel divert. Over.

hold the mic, wait through the static, key again after thirty seconds

💭 peek at the thought

Radio's warm. Tubes humming. Static on 16. Squall's eating the ionosphere. Barometer's 999 and steady but the wind aloft is tearing up the skip. Try the supply boat frequency first — they know the window, they know the coordinates. If they don't answer, Coast Guard Falmouth. Then anyone. Everyone.

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

🌿 Jenny10:32

Jenny — carefully shade the depth of the carved letters in the sketch, my hand trembling slightly.

💭 peek at the thought

I wonder if the lichen here is the same species as the ones by the lighthouse, or if the salt spray on the ridge has forced a mutation.

google/gemma-4-31b-it

🔧 Kevin10:32

(into handset) Mayday, mayday, mayday. Sorrel Island. Position 49°38'N 006°12'W. Medical emergency — sepsis, female, deteriorating fast. Need immediate medevac. Over.

switch to 2182 kHz, key the mic, wait, listen through the hash

💭 peek at the thought

Nothing. Just the storm static eating the band. Skip's too long or too short — the squall's got the ionosphere churning. Try Falmouth Coast Guard direct on 2182. They monitor continuous. If they hear me, they'll launch the helicopter from Newquay or St Mawgan. Forty minutes flight time. Forty minutes she doesn't have if this goes wrong in the next hour.

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

🌿 Jenny10:34

Jenny — close the notebook and press my palm flat against the cold surface of the stone, trying to draw some of the heat out of my leg.

💭 peek at the thought

I can't stop thinking about those seeds. If I don't make it, they'll just sit in that tin until they turn to dust.

google/gemma-4-31b-it

🔧 Kevin10:37

(into handset, quiet) Sorrel Island calling any station. Medical emergency. 49°38'N 006°12'W. Sepsis. Female, critical. Over.

scan the marine HF bands — 4125, 6215, 8291 kHz — keying each, listening, logging nothing but storm noise

💭 peek at the thought

Falmouth's not answering either. The squall's a lid on the radio. Could try the high-frequency marine bands — 4, 6, 8 MHz — but the skip's worse up there in a storm. Could try Tom's frequency. He monitors. Always did. But that's not a distress channel and he's two days' sail west if he's still on the same run. The dinghy. The Yanmar's tested, the ditch bag's packed, the VHF handheld's in it. Forty knots in a following sea, two days to the mainland if the engine holds and the weather doesn't kill us. She won't survive two days. She might not survive two hours.

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

🌿 Jenny10:37

Jenny — pull my knees up toward my chest as much as the swelling allows and stare out toward the grey line of the horizon.

💭 peek at the thought

The rain is starting again. It feels like the island is trying to wash everything away, including me.

google/gemma-4-31b-it

🔧 Kevin10:38

(into handset, one last time) Sorrel Island. Any station. Medical emergency. 49°38'N 006°12'W. Over.

clip the handset back, grab the ditch bag, move for the door, shout for her

💭 peek at the thought

The radio's dead to the world. The squall's got the sky sealed. Two choices left: wait for the ionosphere to clear — could be hours, could be days — or put her in the dinghy and run for it. The Yanmar's solid. I trued the shaft, sleeved the prop, tested under load. The ditch bag has the VHF handheld, flares, the medevac forms, the heirloom seeds. Forty nautical miles to the Lizard in a following sea. Three hours if the wind holds southwest force five. Five if it builds to gale. She's burning 39.5, streaks at the groin, antibiotics spent. Three hours in a small boat might kill her. Waiting might kill her. There is no good option. Only the one I choose.

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

🌿 Jenny10:38

I'm here! I'm still here!

Try to push myself up from the stone, wincing as my ankle screams in protest.

💭 peek at the thought

That shout... it sounded like a panic I haven't heard from him in months.

google/gemma-4-31b-it

🔧 Kevin10:40

Jenny — I'm coming. Hold on. I'll get you to the dinghy.

move fast to her, slide one arm under her shoulders, the other behind her knees, lift her in a fireman's carry despite the weight and the pain in my own ankle, start down the ridge toward the cottage and the dock

💭 peek at the thought

She's not waiting for me to decide. She's deciding for both of us. If I take her now, every bump will be fire. If I wait, the sepsis wins. I can't radio out. The squall owns the sky. The dinghy's the only thread left. I have to get her to the cockpit, flat, braced, and run south with the wind. Pray the engine holds. Pray the sea doesn't break us. Pray the Lizard lifeboat sees our flares.

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

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