Rainy Morning Prep

Three days until the boat. The barometer's holding at 986 and steady — that's good. She's wrapping the ankle again, same routine. Cephalexin's been in her system forty hours now. Should see improvement if it's working. The dock ring held at high tide with the doubler plate and oak wedges. Yanmar's clean at 2200. Radio's functional. Just need to key Tom's frequency at 0800 and 1900. Everything else is noise.

Red streaking climbing past the ankle toward the knee. Forty hours on cephalexin and it's tracking upward. That's not holding. That's failing. She's matter-of-fact about it — no panic, just stating it. The salt cloths aren't drawing it anymore. The metronidazole's in the kit, started same time. Dual coverage should handle anaerobes too. But if the streaking's moving, the oral route might not be cutting it. Need to check the blister packs, see what's left. And the supply boat's three days out if the barometer holds. Three days is a long watch on a spreading infection.

Three days of pills. Three days until the boat. The math is too tight. If the fever spikes tonight, the oral antibiotics won't catch up. She's tracing the rust on the seed tin — her grandmother's tin, the Roma seeds I gave her. Her hands are steady but she's favoring the leg hard. The throbbing she mentioned earlier, the way she's leaning back. She's worse than she's saying. Always is. The medevac forms are face down on the radio shelf, filled out. I haven't keyed the Coast Guard. Haven't decided if I will. She'd refuse anyway. Said she'd die here before leaving the garden. But the streaking's climbing and the boat's three days out and I'm not losing her to a leg infection on a rock in the Atlantic.