Day 357

Aye. The ring's held with the wedges and the doubler, but I'll verify the shackles and the spring lines while we've got slack.

Walk to the dinghy and inspect each mooring line — forward spring, aft spring, breast lines — checking chafe points and knot security; then crouch at the dock edge and examine the mooring ring in its mortise, testing for any play under hand

Won't be long. Two minutes.

Finish checking the aft spring line's round turn and two half-hitches at the dinghy's stern cleat, then move to the forward spring at the bow, verifying the splice and the tension; finally grip the mooring ring itself and heave sideways wit

Ring's fast. Lines hold. Come on — I'll get you up the path.

Drop the last line, step to the bench, and hook an arm under her shoulder to take her weight; start walking toward the cottage at her pace, scanning the sky for the front.

I've got you. Watch your foot — third plank's loose.

Steady her over the loose plank at the threshold, guide her through the door to the chair by the stove, and set the kettle on to boil.

Tea first. Then I'm looking at that ankle.

Pour two mugs, set one on the table beside her, sit opposite with the first aid kit, and peel back the bandage to see what's underneath.

Let me take a look. I'll get the light.

walk to the shelf, grab the LED headlamp, turn it on, and walk back to the kitchen table to sit beside Jenny.

Hold on. Don't rip it. I'll get water.

stand, walk to the rain tank tap, fill the kettle, set it on the wood stove to warm, then return to the table with a clean cloth and wait for the water to heat.

Won't be. Just warm enough to loosen the gauze.

lift the kettle off the stove as steam curls, pour a little into the chipped enamel mug, test it with a fingertip, then dip the clean cloth and hold it over the stuck gauze without pressure, letting the heat and moisture work.

Almost there. Keep it still.

gently peel the loosened gauze away with two fingers, set it aside, then use the damp cloth to lightly dab around the wound — not touching it yet — to clean the skin before I touch the sore itself.

We'll draw it. Warm compresses, change them every hour. Keep the leg up. I'll make the poultice — plantain and yarrow from the garden, if they're still green under the tarp.

set the bloody gauze aside, stand, walk to the porch door, pull on boots, and step out into the rain toward the garden beds.

Want me to look at it?

Set the wrench down on the workbench and walk over to the table, pulling out the chair opposite her.

Let me.

Reach for the antiseptic bottle and clean gauze from the kit, fingers hovering — waiting for her to nod or pull away.

Kevin — dab antiseptic on the gauze — gentle, methodical — and start cleaning around the raw edges, working outward from the center.

Nearly done.

Finish cleaning the irritated skin, then lay fresh gauze pads over the worst spots before rewrapping with the elastic bandage — firm but not tight, checking the toes for color as I go.

Stay off it tomorrow. Proper off it.

Tuck the bandage end secure, sit back, and wipe my hands on a rag.

Let me see it.

walk over to the table and pull out the chair opposite her, sitting down and reaching for her ankle

Jenny. Look at me.

gently take her wrist where it's white on the table edge and turn her hand palm up, waiting for her eyes to meet mine

Radio. Now. I'll call the supply boat skipper. Medical evacuations have priority. They'll divert.

stand and walk to the shortwave on the shelf, flipping the power switch and grabbing the mic, already tuning to the coast guard frequency

Jenny. Move.

place both hands firmly on her shoulders, not to push but to hold her still, looking her in the eye as I speak low and firm: I'm not leaving you here to die over pride. Let me call.

Then prove it. Let me call.

step back, hands raised open, not retreating—giving her space to choose, but blocking the door so she can't walk out of this conversation

Sit. I'll get the water.

Move to the stove, lift the kettle off the hook, and carry it to the table. Set it down careful, then pull out a chair and sit opposite her, waiting.

The gauze is in the bottom compartment. Under the scissors.

Reach across the table, steady her wrist with one hand. With the other, pull the antiseptic bottle from the kit — the one we opened three days ago — and set it on the table between us. Don't let go of her wrist.

Jen. Look at me.

Keep hold of her wrist. With my free hand, crack the seal on the antiseptic bottle and pour a capful, holding it out. Don't move toward her ankle yet. Just wait.

You're looking at the gauze. Look at me.

Don't let go of her wrist. Shift my weight forward on the chair. The cap of antiseptic sits in my palm, waiting.

Pour it. Let it run. All of it.

Press the open bottle into her palm, my fingers closing over hers to guide it toward her ankle. Don't release her wrist.

Jen. Look at me. The red line's past your ankle. That's blood poisoning. You stay, you die. That's not stubborn — that's suicide.

keep hands on her shoulders, holding her steady, not letting her pull away

The gauze is gone. The antibiotics are gone. You used the last blister pack on your ankle three days ago. There's nothing left but antiseptic and hope.

step back but stay close, arms loose, ready to catch her if she goes down

Boiling kills bacteria on cloth. It doesn't kill what's already in your blood. Jen, look at that line — it's halfway to your knee. If it hits the groin, you've got hours.

move to the water bucket, dip a clean corner of her linen in it, wring it out, and press it gently to the edge of the wound to cool and clean it — not to fix, just to ease the burn while I think

Salt on an open wound is torture, not medicine. The pot's going on for water — you need to drink. When did you last piss?

put the cast iron pot on the wood stove, fill it from the tank, light the fire underneath with practiced motions