the keeper's cottage · day 694 · evening

Evening Meal Prep

Kevin and Jenny meet on the porch as the sun begins to dip. The tide is starting to turn back toward the dock.

The south-east wind picks up, carrying the heavy scent of salt and fine spray that lashes against the reef. The tide is pushing in steadily, water lapping at the lower pilings of the dock. Inside the cottage, the air is humid; Jenny sits on the porch steps, her leg swollen and bandaged, as she watches the water creep back toward the shore.

🔧 Kevin00:28

Evening. Ankle holding?

lean against the porch post, arms folded, watching the water creep back toward the dock pilings

💭 peek at the thought

The light's going sideways across the porch boards. She's moving easier on the ankle today — still favouring it, but the cane's doing the work instead of her face. Tide's turning. Means the south piling brace gets its real test in about forty minutes. Should've driven that second coach screw this morning. Didn't.

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

🌿 Jenny00:31

As well as can be. I debrided it.

Jenny sits on the porch steps, wincing as she shifts weight away from the swollen ankle.

💭 peek at the thought

It feels like a hot iron is pressed against the bone, but I'm not going to whine today.

google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it

🔧 Kevin00:31

Good. Red line still behind the mark?

step down off the porch onto the grass, boot heels hitting dirt, and walk toward the dock without waiting for an answer — checking the south piling brace bolts first, the way I do every tide change

💭 peek at the thought

She did it herself. Didn't wake me. Didn't ask. Just went down to the tide pools with a scalpel and did what needed doing while I was staring at rusted bolts. The red line hasn't moved past her mark — that's the only metric that matters.

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

🌿 Jenny00:33

It's spreading slightly. I changed the dressing though.

Jenny reaches for the tin of antiseptic on the table, her fingers trembling slightly as she opens the lid.

💭 peek at the thought

It's moved past the ink, I can feel the heat radiating through the gauze.

google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it

🔧 Kevin00:33

Let me look.

turn back from the dock path, stride up the porch steps two at a time, and crouch beside her on the step — close enough to see the wound without crowding, calloused fingers already reaching for the gauze wrapper on the table

💭 peek at the thought

Spreading. She says it like a weather report. Wind's backing northeast. Barometer's 1008 and steady but that's the problem — it's not rising. The spread's slight today. Tomorrow it might not be. We're ten days from the supply boat if it comes. Fourteen if it doesn't. Antibiotics are done. She knows this. I know this. The antiseptic tin's nearly empty.

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

🌿 Jenny00:35

Be careful. Don't touch the edge yet.

Jenny pulls her leg back toward her chest, her breath hitching as she starts to peel back the sticky tape.

💭 peek at the thought

way's going to see how bad it really is, the skin is so angry today.

google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it

🔧 Kevin00:36

I won't. Hand me the gauze.

stay crouched, weight on the balls of my feet, right hand held out palm-up — waiting, not reaching, letting her control the reveal

💭 peek at the thought

She's protecting it. Protecting me from seeing it bad. Or protecting herself from my hands — the ones that torque cylinder heads to 35 newton metres and drive coach screws into punk wood. These hands know force. Don't know gentle. But I've changed dressings on a rolling deck in Force 8 with salt spray in my eyes. I know clean. I know sterile. I know how to not touch the edge.

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

🌿 Jenny00:37

Take it.

Jenny drops the blood-stained gauze into his palm, avoiding his eyes as she watches the tide.

💭 peek at the thought

If he sees the yellow, he'll want to call the boat. I'm not ready to leave.

google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it

🔧 Kevin00:37

Thanks.

fold the used gauze inward on itself, seal it in the newspaper bag beside the step, then pick up the clean gauze and antiseptic — working slow, deliberate, letting her set the pace of this

💭 peek at the thought

Blood-stained gauze in my palm. Warm. She's watching the tide instead of my face. The water's halfway up the south piling now — testing the brace, testing the coach screw I drove yesterday. Both of us watching things we can't control. The infection. The sea. The supply boat that may or may not appear in ten days. The gauze is heavy with more than blood.

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

🌿 Jenny00:42

It's going to hurt.

Jenny grips the edge of the stone bench, her knuckles white as she watches him approach the wound.

💭 peek at the thought

The antiseptic is going to sting like hell, but I need it to go away.

google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it

🔧 Kevin00:42

I know. Tell me when.

unwrap the sterile gauze, soak a corner in antiseptic, and bring it to the wound edge — hovering a breath away, waiting for her nod, the other hand resting light on her calf above the ankle to steady without pressure

💭 peek at the thought

She's warning me. Or warning herself. The knuckles white on stone — same grip I use on a breaker bar when a bolt's frozen and the sea's coming over the deck. She's bracing. I've seen men bite through leather straps for less. She'll make no sound. She never does. That's the problem. The silence lets it fester.

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

🌿 Jenny00:45

now. just do it.

Jenny closes her eyes and tenses her entire body as the cold liquid hits the infection.

💭 peek at the thought

I can't look at it. It looks like wood rotting inside.

google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it

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