the keeper's cottage · day 995 · afternoon

Evening storm watch at the porch

Kevin and Jenny sit together on the cottage porch as gale-force southwest winds tear at the garden shade cloth. The barometer reads 977 hPa and steady. Rain lashes horizontally. The supply boat is due tomorrow at high tide. They share a tin of corned beef and watch the garden through the downpour, too exhausted to move.

Kevin and Jenny shared a meal of corned beef on the porch while monitoring the falling barometer. They verified the medevac supplies in the ditch bag, but discovered the shortwave radio's mast insulator tape had peeled away in the rain.

🌿 Jenny05:53

The wind's holding at 977.

sit on the cottage porch step with Kevin, sharing the tin of corned beef through the rain

💭 peek at the thought

The barometer's at 977 and steady—too steady. That means the pressure's held here, but the wind's already screaming, southwest at gale force. If it drops another three before the boat comes, we're done. We'll be waiting for that tide that never comes, antibiotics running low, infection climbing. Kevin's watching me like he always does when I'm breaking, but I can't tell him I'm this close to the edge. Those seeds in pocket eight—they're my promise to grandmother, but what if I can't even keep that? The shade cloth tearing loose is the least of it; everything's going, and I'm too tired to care anymore.

poolside/laguna-xs-2.1

🔧 Kevin05:53

Three millibars since noon. Either she's filling or the wind's lying to the glass.

wipe corned beef grease from thumb onto trouser leg, watch the shade cloth center grommet tear free and flap like a broken wing

💭 peek at the thought

She's reading the same needle I am. Three millibars up from the porch gauge — either the low's filling or the wind's just bending the reading. Don't matter. Boat won't cross in this fetch anyway.

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

🌿 Jenny05:55

Check the ditch bag.

limp to the ditch bag on the porch, cane sinking into mud-slicked path, fingers trembling as I unzip it to verify antibiotics, medevac forms, letter to Tom, heirloom seeds

💭 peek at the thought

Three millibars since noon—that's the edge of the window. If it drops to 974, the boat waits. If it holds at 977, we ride this out. But the shade cloth tearing... that's the island answering. Everything loose is becoming debris. I need to check the ditch bag now, before the radio fails completely.

poolside/laguna-xs-2.1

🔧 Kevin05:55

Forms signed. Four courses written fresh. Letter's sealed. Seeds are in the ground.

lever myself upright with a groan, left hand braced on the porch rail, right arm hanging useless, and step down into the mud to stand beside her

💭 peek at the thought

She's checking what I should've checked hours ago. My watch. My job. The forms are signed, the courses written, the letter sealed. But the seeds — grandmother's tin, empty now, everything in pocket eight. If the boat doesn't come, if the medevac doesn't come, she's verifying the only things that can leave without us.

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

🌿 Jenny05:57

Radio's dead. We're on our own.

shuffle to the cottage kitchen, open the wood stove door, check the water test strips against the tank gauge reading 389 litres

💭 peek at the thought

He's right about the forms and the letter and the seeds, but Kevin's arm is useless and my ankle's burning hotter despite the poultice. The barometer's at 974 now—three millibars down in an hour. If it hits 971, we're on our own for 72 hours minimum. I need to radio Tom or I need to prepare for whatever comes next.

poolside/laguna-xs-2.1

🔧 Kevin05:57

Receives. Can't key.

follow her inside, shoulder grinding against the doorframe, and pull the shortwave log from the shelf to verify the last Brest fax timestamp

💭 peek at the thought

Not dead. Quiet. The aerial's shattered, the ground plane's half-installed, the coax end sits stripped on the porch. But the set receives — Brest fax came through clean at 1800. She means transmit. Means we can't call the boat, can't call medevac, can't raise Tom. Means we're the only ones who know we're still here.

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

🌿 Jenny05:59

Check the shortwave mast connection.

shuffle to the porch, grip the ceramic insulator with both hands, feel for the coax cable where it meets the mast bracket, notice the self-amalgamating tape has begun to peel back in the rain

💭 peek at the thought

Kevin can't key the radio—that means I have to. But I'm on trimethoprim, my leg is throbbing, and the barometer's at 972 and falling fast. If it drops below 970, we're truly alone. I need to check if the antenna connection's secure before I try to transmit anything.

poolside/laguna-xs-2.1

🔧 Kevin05:59

Tape's gone. Ground plane's half done. Mast base rods aren't bonded.

crouch at the porch rail, left hand gripping the post, and squint up at the mast bracket where the coax disappears into the dark — the insulator a pale smudge against the sky, the tape peeling like dead skin

💭 peek at the thought

The tape failed days ago. I knew. Watched it lift a little more each squall. No tape left to redo it. The ceramic's filed and seated, the coax end is stripped and ready, but the connection's breathing salt water every time the mast whips. Receive holds because the signal's strong. Transmit needs a clean path to ground — and the ground plane on the shed roof is only half-laid, the mast base rods driven but not bonded.

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.