Day 440

The Storm Draws In

Evening brought hardening wind. Kevin pinned the kitchen window latch with a nail, then cut and wedged cedar shims behind the shutter hinges to stop the rattling. Jenny reviewed transom repair notes while the kettle heated. "The storm is moving faster than the forecast," she said. "Check the window latches." Kevin agreed to inspect the bronze sleeve at the 0640 slack tide. "I'll judge it at first light," he said.

Dawn found Kevin hacking at a stubborn spruce branch to widen the path to the spring, while Jenny sat on a rock wrapping her ankle and watching clouds thicken over the ridge. He cleared root fibers from the intake screen, deepening the drainage trench; the gravity feed held steady. At low tide he walked the dock, inspected the transom bronze sleeve — seated true, no play on the prop shaft — and doubled the lines with a second spring and breast line to the pilings. The mooring ring held under tension, though the mortise had rotted deeper. Jenny cleared windblown limbs from the intake and noted her ankle swelling had not increased overnight.

Midday passed without record. By afternoon the cottage air was heavy with humidity and the smell of searing fat. Kevin cooked while Jenny sketched sea beet morphology at the table, her leg throbbing. Outside the sky bruised purple; high tide lapped the pilings. Rain hit the tin roof as they ate. Kevin had checked the dinghy transom sleeve before the storm; Jenny monitored the barometer inside.

Scenes

the spring · dawn

Clearing the Intake

Kevin hacks away at a stubborn spruce branch to widen the path to the water source. Jenny sits on a nearby rock, wrapping her ankle while watching the thickening clouds over the ridge.

Kevin cleared the spring intake of stubborn root fibers, ensuring the flow remains steady before the clouds break. Jenny attempted to sketch the rock morphology in her notebook but struggled with focus due to the humidity and the instability of the stone.

🌿 Jenny23:15

way with that angle, Kevin. You'll crack the basin if you hit it too hard.

Tighten the gauze wrap on the ankle and sketch the morphology of the spruce bark in the margin of the notebook.

💭 thought

If the water doesn't clear before the boat comes, I'm going to be drinking silt and praying the filter holds.

🔧 Kevin23:15

Wedge's holding. I'll ease off the come-along before the last cut.

reposition the come-along tension, make the final cut on the spruce butt section with controlled strokes, let the root plate settle slow

💭 thought

She's right about the angle — the root plate's already shifting. One bad swing and the basin cracks. She's watching the ridge too, not just me. Clouds stacking up fast.

🌿 Jenny23:17

Good. Don't let the cable snap and take the stone.

Stand up slowly, wincing as the weight shifts, and walk toward the spring basin to check the flow.

💭 thought

He's getting better at the tension, but he's still too rough with the iron.

🔧 Kevin23:17

Cable's new. Three-strand half-inch. Won't snap.

lower the spruce butt section clear of the basin, coil the come-along line, walk over to the spring intake and check the water clarity myself

💭 thought

She's favouring the left side hard. Ankle's not right and she knows it. Spring flow's the only thing she can check standing still.

🌿 Jenny23:19

way make sure you don't knock the debris back into the intake.

Kneel by the basin, dip a water test

💭 thought

It's clear for now, but the sediment is already settling in the corners.

🔧 Kevin23:19

I'll stay back. You've got the strips.

plant boots on the flat rock above the intake, watch her work the test strip, keep weight off the loose stone around the basin edge

💭 thought

She's testing water I haven't touched yet. Smart. My boots are muddy from the root plate — one slip and I undo the whole clearing.

🌿 Jenny23:21

It's safe. I need to get the spruce roots out of the crack before it rains properly.

Set the strip on the rock and reach into the water to clear the debris.

💭 thought

The pH is fine, but the flow is sluggish. The intake is choking.

🔧 Kevin23:21

Let me. Tweezers in my pocket. You sit.

crouch on the flat rock, pull the fine tweezers from my pocket, work the root fibres out of the intake crack one by one, keep the water running clear

💭 thought

She's reaching into cold water with an ankle that's held together by gauze and stubbornness. The root hairs are fine work — tweezers job, not fingers. Rain's close enough to smell.

🌿 Jenny23:23

Watch the edge. The stone is loose.

Watch him clear the crack while sketching the pattern of the rock face in the notebook.

💭 thought

He's being careful with the tweezers, but my ankle is throbbing in time with the trickle.

🔧 Kevin23:23

Tweezers are blunt. Still gripping. Stone's solid under the moss.

pull the last root fibres free, tap the intake screen clear with the tweezers handle, stand slow and wipe mud off my boots on the flat rock

💭 thought

She's drawing the rock face while I dig roots out of her water supply. The tweezers are shot — tip snapped off weeks ago — but the flat edge still grips fibre. Rain's first drops hitting the spruce needles above us.

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the spring · morning

Dawn at the spring

The flat sky thickens as the humid air grows heavy with the coming rain. The tide is still out, leaving the rocks exposed.

Kevin walked to the dock at low tide and inspected the transom bronze sleeve, finding it seated true with no play on the prop shaft. He doubled the dock lines, adding a second spring and breast line to the pilings, and verified the mooring ring held fast under tension. Jenny remained at the spring, clearing the last windblown spruce limbs from the intake screen and deepening the drainage trench; she noted her ankle swelling had not increased overnight.

🌿 Jenny23:25

Jenny — jenny wipes a bead of sweat from her brow with a wrist and presses the pencil harder against the paper, sketching the fracture in the rock.

💭 thought

If this infection spreads before the boat comes, I won't be able to hold a trowel.

🔧 Kevin23:25

Kevin — wipe hands on thighs, stand, walk back toward cottage

💭 thought

Water's running clear. Good. Last root fiber came free clean. She's sketching the fracture — means she's seeing the geology, not just the water. Smart.

🌿 Jenny23:27

I'll be in in a minute.

Jenny watches him go, then turns back to the basin, rubbing the graphite on the damp paper.

💭 thought

He's leaving again without even asking if I can finish the own.

🔧 Kevin23:27

Kevin — walk up path to cottage, pull kettle from hook, fill from tank tap, set on stove, light burner

💭 thought

Let her be. She needs the quiet same as me. Tank's near full anyway — 397 litres. Rain'll top it off.

🌿 Jenny23:29

Jenny — jenny reaches into the stone basin, cupping the cold water to splash her face, ignoring the throb in her ankle.

💭 thought

The water is clear, but my leg feels like lead and fire.

🔧 Kevin23:29

Kevin — pull two tin mugs from shelf, set on table, unscrew coffee jar, measure two heaped spoons each

💭 thought

Kettle's heating. Coffee jar's sealed. Two mugs. She'll want one when she comes in.

🌿 Jenny23:31

Is it boiling?

Jenny limps into the kitchen, leaning heavy weight on her good leg, and sits at the table.

💭 thought

way smells like the only thing that isn't decaying right now.

🔧 Kevin23:31

Coming up.

lift kettle, pour steady into both mugs, set kettle back, push one mug across table to her

💭 thought

Kettle's singing. She's favoring the ankle bad today. Poultice held through the night but the swelling's back.

🌿 Jenny23:33

Thanks.

Jenny wraps both hands around the mug, letting the heat soak into her palms, and stares at the steam.

💭 thought

way's so quiet it's like I'm already gone.

🔧 Kevin23:33

Kevin — blow across own mug, take a sip, set it down, pull clean gauze and antibiotic cream from first aid kit, set on table beside her mug

💭 thought

Steam rising. She's not drinking yet — just holding the heat. Ankle's throbbing visible in her jaw. Should check the dressing after.

Open this scene on its own page →

the dock · midday

Midday check-in and radio call

Kevin is at the dock finishing line checks; Jenny is on the path returning from the spring.

No narrator was available, so nothing about this stretch was recorded.

🌿 Jenny23:35

Jenny — walk toward the cottage, pausing to shift weight off the left foot.

💭 thought

If the boat doesn't come in four days, I need to have those seeds dried properly. The humidity is an enemy today.

🔧 Kevin23:36

Kevin — check the handheld VHF battery level, then the shortwave power. Sit on the dock planking and wait for 0400 UTC.

💭 thought

The lines are holding. The sleeve is true. The barometer's climbing — front's still hours out, maybe misses us entirely. 0400 comes whether I'm ready or not.

🌿 Jenny23:39

Jenny — stop at the cottage step, sit down, and carefully undo the bandages on my ankle.

💭 thought

The brace is cutting off circulation again. I need to loosen it before it gets worse.

🔧 Kevin23:40

Kevin — watch the horizon. Keep the shortwave on my knee, mic in hand. Count the minutes.

💭 thought

Time's moving. The grey's thinning on the western horizon — not much, but enough to tell the sun's still up there. My thumb keeps finding the mic key on the shortwave. Let go. Wait. The handheld VHF reads three bars. Good enough.

🌿 Jenny23:43

Jenny — trace the edge of the swelling with my finger, watching for any spread.

💭 thought

The skin is still angry, but the red streaks haven't moved up. I need to check the temperature again.

🔧 Kevin23:44

Kevin — lift the shortwave mic. Thumb on the key. Wait for the second hand.

💭 thought

0358. Two minutes. The air's gone quiet — no wind, no birds, just the tide sucking at the pilings. My throat's tight. Same as it was eleven months ago. Same as it was forty minutes in the Biscay. I'll key the mic. I'll say the frequency. After that... the words have to come from somewhere.

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the keeper's cottage · afternoon

A Quiet Stretch

Back at the cottage.

The air in the cottage is heavy with humidity and the smell of searing fat. Kevin prepares the meal while Jenny sits at the table, her leg throbbing beneath the wood as she focuses on her sketches of the sea beet. Outside, the sky is a bruised purple, and the high tide laps rhythmically against the pilings.

🔧 Kevin23:48

Kettle's on. Got any of that corned beef left?

walk into the kitchen, set the cast iron skillet on the wood stove, open the tin of corned beef with the key, slice off a thick slab

💭 thought

The walk back felt longer than it should. My hands still smell of salt and greenheart sawdust. The transom's not right — another mil of play since yesterday, and the shims won't seat. I need to think on that, but first the body needs fuel.

🌿 Jenny23:49

There's half left. Don't burn it.

way at the kitchen table, open my own, and sketch the morphology of the sea beet I saw yesterday.

💭 thought

He eats like he's preparing for a siege, and I'm barely holding myself together.

🔧 Kevin23:50

Won't burn it. Fat's too precious.

lay the corned beef slab in the hot skillet, listen to the fat sigh and pop, spoon the rendered fat into a small jar for the seedling trays, flip the meat once, slide it onto a tin plate, carry it to the table opposite her, sit down

💭 thought

Half a tin. She counted. Good — means she's tracking stores without me asking. The sketchbook's open. She's working the sea beet morphology. Salt glands, leaf venation, the way the epidermis thickens at the margin. Smart. That data matters for the transect.

🌿 Jenny23:51

The way is holding. It's going to rain.

stop sketching, and rub my ankle under the table to hide the throbbing.

💭 thought

He's so casual about it while my leg is literally throbbing under the table.

🔧 Kevin23:52

Barometer's steady at 981. But you're usually ahead of it. How bad?

cut a piece of corned beef with the fork, chew slow, watch her face across the table, reach under the table and rest my hand on her ankle — not pressing, just there

💭 thought

She feels it coming in the joint before the barometer moves. Always does. The ankle's been trouble since the slip on the dock planks — she won't say how bad. I see the rub. I see the jaw set. The transom sleeve, the dock lines, the shrine message, Tom's birthday in five days, the radio at 0400 — all of it sits in the chest. But right now: corned beef, rain coming, her ankle throbbing under the table.

🌿 Jenny23:53

It's just the heat from clearing the spruce today.

flinch slightly at the touch, and look down at my plate.

💭 thought

He can feel the heat through the skin even if I'm sitting still.

🔧 Kevin23:54

Heat doesn't make you flinch. Let me look when we're done eating.

keep eating, steady, not looking at her ankle, not looking away from her face

💭 thought

She's lying. The flinch tells me it's not heat. Infection, maybe. Or the bone. She cleared spruce all morning on a swollen ankle and didn't say a word. The doxycycline started yesterday — five doses left. Metronidazole too. If it's not responding, we need to know before the supply boat's due in four days. But she'll shut down if I push. She always does.

🌿 Jenny23:55

I'm fine, Kevin. Just tired.

pull my leg away from under the table and start eating the corned beef.

💭 thought

He wants to inspect me like one of those broken specimens in the herbarium.

🔧 Kevin23:56

Right. Tired.

finish the corned beef in two more bites, stand, take both plates to the sink, run cold water over them, set them on the rack, pull the kettle off the stove, pour two tin mugs of tea, no sugar in hers, one in mine, set hers on the table bes

💭 thought

Pulled away. The wall goes up. I've seen it a hundred times — on ships, in ports, in the water. People don't admit they're sinking until the water's over their head. She'll take the antibiotics. She'll wrap it. She'll work tomorrow. And if the red line climbs past her knee, she'll still say she's fine. I can't make her tell me. But I can make sure the meds are there, the cold pack's ready, the radio works if we need the medevac forms. Four days to the supply boat. We'll see.

🔧 Kevin23:59

…

sit back down at the table, wrap both hands around the tin mug, let the heat bleed into my fingers, stare at the steam rising and disappearing

💭 thought

The silence stretches. Tea steams. Rain hasn't started but the air's thick with it — that pressure behind the eyes. She won't ask about the transom. Won't ask about the radio at 0400. Won't ask about Tom. She never asks the things that hurt. Just hands me tea the way I take it and sketches sea beet glands by lantern light. Five days to his birthday. Four to the supply boat. The transom gap's widening. The ankle's not heat. I'm tired in the way sleep doesn't fix.

🌿 Jenny23:59

The boat is four days out. We can wait.

take a sip of the tea, and watch the clouds through the window.

💭 thought

If he sees the redness, he'll start calling the trust.

🔧 Kevin00:01

Aye. Four days.

drink the tea, hot and bitter, set the mug down, push back from the table, walk to the porch door, pull it open, step out onto the boards, breathe the salt-wet air, watch the cloud bank rolling in from the southwest, low and bruised purple

💭 thought

Four days. She's counting. The supply boat, the antibiotics, the medevac forms clipped to the ditch bag. She's telling me we can hold the line that long. Maybe we can. The transom sleeve weeps but holds. The dock lines are doubled. The garden's tarp is staked. The radio works — new insulator seated, coax run. The generator runs smooth. The Yanmar's vibration is a ghost at half-throttle but the prop shaft spins true. We've survived worse with less. But her ankle. And the thing I won't say into the microphone at 0400. Four days.

🌿 Jenny00:01

It's going to be hard tonight.

lean against the whitewashed stone, weight on my good leg, and watch the sea hitting the rocks.

💭 thought

The pressure is dropping. I can feel it in my joints before the barometer even clicks.

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the keeper's cottage · evening

The rain finally breaks

The first heavy drops hit the tin roof just as the meal is served. The smell of ozone fills the room.

Kevin inspected the dinghy during the low tide, ensuring the transom sleeve was secure before the storm arrived. Jenny stayed inside the cottage to monitor her ankle and watch the barometric pressure as the air grew heavy and humid.

🌿 Jenny00:03

The storm is moving faster than the forecast. Check the window latches.

Stands up slowly with a wince, moving the heirloom seed tin to the highest shelf of the wood stove.

💭 thought

If the rain gets into the kitchen, the seeds will rot before they ever see the soil.

🔧 Kevin00:03

On it.

move to the porch door and check the south-facing shutter latch, then the kitchen window, securing both with the wooden dogs

💭 thought

She's right. The front's pushing hard. Barometer's dropped another two since noon. Need the shutters dogged, the radio gear wrapped, the dinghy lines triple-checked before dark.

🌿 Jenny00:05

Make sure they are tight. The pressure is dropping.

Sits back down heavily, rubbing the swollen area around the ankle brace while watching the rain blur the glass.

💭 thought

He's so efficient it's infuriating. I'm falling apart.

🔧 Kevin00:05

They'll hold.

finish dogging the kitchen window shutter, then step out onto the porch to secure the south-facing porch shutter with the iron hasp and pin

💭 thought

She doesn't need me telling her what she already knows. The gauge on the wall reads 977 and falling. Wind's backing northeast already. Shutters first, then the dinghy mooring, then the generator lashings.

🌿 Jenny00:07

Don't stay out too long. The barometer is screaming.

Pulls her knees up toward her chest and watches his silhouette against the grey rain.

💭 thought

If the wind catches that shutter, the whole thing will come off the hinges.

🔧 Kevin00:08

Back in five.

pull the oilskin from the hook by the door, cinch the hood, and step out into the rain toward the dock

💭 thought

The porch shutter pin seats clean. Rain's coming sideways now, warm and hard. Dinghy's the next worry — doubled lines held last blow but the mooring ring's still working loose in the mortise. Need to check the chafe points and the storm anchor warp.

🌿 Jenny00:12

I'm checking the seacocks twice anyway. Not taking chances. The tin's getting cold. I need to keep it dry.

Opens the dry bag and removes the heirloom seed tin, holding it against her chest to dry it faster in the warmth from the wood stove. </think>THOUGHT: If the pressure drops fast enough to flood the engine compartment, I won't have time to s

💭 thought

Five minutes is an eternity when the barometer keeps falling.

🔧 Kevin00:12

Seacocks are good. Checked at low.

reach the dock and crouch at the bow cleat, running fingers along the doubled stern spring and breast line checking for chafe where they kiss the chocks

💭 thought

She's got the seed tin warm and dry. Smart. The seacocks are sound — I checked them last tide. Now the dinghy. The mooring ring's the weak link. If it pulls free, the whole boat goes broadside to the pilings.

🌿 Jenny00:14

Good. Make sure nothing's getting abraded by the dock pilings.

Stands up abruptly, causing the chair to scrape the concrete, and moves to the window to check the rain's intensity against the glass.

💭 thought

The lines look tight enough, but that's not the same as secure when the swell builds.

🔧 Kevin00:14

Ring's working loose. Mortise is gone deeper. Need more wedge or a collar.

stand, brace a boot on the piling, and heave hard on the mooring ring to test the play, watching the oak wedges compress and the greenheart sister plank shift

💭 thought

Stern spring's clean — the new half-inch three-strand shows no wear at the chock. Breast line's holding. But the mooring ring shifts when I heave on it. Oak wedges are compressed but the mortise is rotted deeper than last week. Greenheart sister plank is floating on a scoured void. If the surge hits hard at high tide, the ring pulls and the dinghy goes into the pilings.

🌿 Jenny00:16

The wedge's splitting. File those oak wedges thinner before you drive them again. Put the spare bronze sleeve in my hands. If the ring fails completely, we're tying off to the hill rocks. Get that bronze sleeve out of my kit. I need to fabricate a proper collar before this gets worse. Check the radio again. I need to hear from Tom about any schedule changes.

Opens the toolbox and pulls out the metal file, running the tip along the edge of one of the oak wedges already driven into the mortise. </think> Walks to the porch door and opens it, letting the smell of rain and ozone fill the kitchen as

💭 thought

The mooring ring is failing and the supply boat won't come on schedule with this weather. The pressure's dropping faster than the tide's rising. I'm not getting those seeds planted this year if the boat doesn't come soon. The mooring ring is failing and I'm running out of time before the swell catches the dinghy. The pressure's dropping faster than the tide's rising. If the barometer hits 985 before the boat arrives, everything's compromised.

🔧 Kevin00:22

Wedges are splitting because the mortise is powder. Bronze sleeve won't bite. Making a collar clamp from the winch plate — bolt it through sound wood above the rot. Back inside in twenty.

turn and jog back up the dock toward the cottage, oilskin flapping, heading for the workshop corner where the winch plate hangs

💭 thought

She's sharp even hurt. The wedges are splitting because the mortise walls are powder — driving thicker oak just splits the wood, not the rot. Bronze sleeve won't help a mortise that's gone to mush. Need a collar clamp around the whole piling, bolted through sound timber above the rot line. Winch plate in the workshop can be repurposed. Four 150mm through-bolts. But the tide's rising fast. Have to work in the water.

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the keeper's cottage · night

The Eve of the Storm

The grey sky has darkened further, and the first heavy drops of rain hit the dust on the porch. You and Jenny are inside the cottage, securing the shutters as the wind begins to pick up.

Kevin pinned the kitchen window latch shut with a nail, then cut and wedged cedar shims behind the shutter hinges to stop the rattling. Jenny reviewed the transom repair notes in her notebook while the kettle heated. They agreed Kevin would inspect the bronze sleeve at the 0640 slack tide.

🌿 Jenny00:23

Check the latch on the kitchen window. It's rattling.

stand up slowly, wincing as weight shifts to my good leg.

💭 thought

The pressure is dropping too fast; if the roof leaks, the seeds are ruined before I even get them started.

🔧 Kevin00:23

Already on it.

Cross the room to the kitchen window, thumb the latch, test the play in the frame, then drive a nail through the catch into the jamb to pin it shut.

💭 thought

The wind's shifted — colder now. That window's been loose since the last gale; I should've pinned it when I had the drill out. She's moving slower today. The ankle's not right.

🌿 Jenny00:26

The shutters need shims behind the hinges, not just nails through the catch. The hinges are the problem, not the catch.

shuffle to the porch door, grip the brass pommel of my carving knife. </think>THOUGHT: The hinges are rotting at the mortise—shims will only push the problem elsewhere. walk to the window frame, run a fingernail along the grain where the ja

💭 thought

The latch was loose because the frame is compromised—not just a quick fix. The rattling means the whole assembly's shifting in the storm.

🔧 Kevin00:27

Right. Shims behind the hinges.

Pull the pocket knife from my belt, cut three cedar shims from the offcut pile by the stove, wedge them behind each hinge leaf until the shutter sits flush, then test the swing.

💭 thought

She's right. The hinge mortises are crumbling — nails through the catch won't hold when the pressure builds. The frame itself needs shimming behind the hinges, not the latch.

🌿 Jenny00:32

Good work. But we need to check the transom tomorrow too.

reach for the notebook on the table, open to the page with the transom measurements from days past, fingers tracing where the bronze sleeve sits.

💭 thought

Cedar's good—it won't rot fast—but he's still treating symptoms. The real issue is the frame itself is compromised by the salt air. Should've seen that coming.

🔧 Kevin00:32

Slack's 0640. I'll look then.

Lean against the doorframe, watch her trace the numbers, wait for the kettle to sigh.

💭 thought

The transom's been weeping at the scarf joint since the last spring tide. The bronze sleeve held on the shaft, but the greenheart shims at the transom face are working loose — gap's widened another mil. Slack water tomorrow at 0640. Need to check it before the front hits proper.

🌿 Jenny00:33

0640 is early. Don't push it if the wind holds.

close the notebook with a soft thud and lean back in the chair, watching the rain streak against the glass.

💭 thought

If the boat doesn't come in four days, I'll be out of antibiotics. I need this leg to hold for the planting.

🔧 Kevin00:33

I'll judge it at first light.

Turn back to the porch door, slide the bolt home, listen to the rain hit the tin roof.

💭 thought

She's not asking. She's telling. The wind's already backing west — barometer's at 980 and falling. If I'm on the transom at 0640 in a rising swell, the dinghy'll pound me against the dock. But the sleeve's weeping. The garboard's working. If I wait, the tide'll cover it and I lose another day.

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What changed

Jenny's injury has healed.

healed · dawn

3 intentions for today.

plan · dawn

×2

Jenny made a sketch: "Morphology of the spruce bark in the margin of the notebook".

made · dawn

Jenny made a sketch: "Pattern of the rock face in the notebook".

made · dawn

clear path to spring: 44%.

project · dawn

Jenny made a sketch: "Fracture in the rock".

made · morning

clear path to spring: 54%.

project · morning

transom bronze sleeve center-drilled and pressed true; prop shaft alignment holds under load

discovery · morning

spring intake gravity feed remains reliable with hose routed above high-tide line and screen clear

discovery · morning

Kevin and Jenny ate.

meal · morning

No model answered — the scene closed quietly on its own.

quiet_transition · midday

Jenny made a sketch: "Morphology of the sea beet I saw yesterday".

made · afternoon

A fish run is moving through the shallows off the dock.

fish_run · afternoon

clear path to spring: 64%.

project · afternoon

Sea beet morphology shows specific de-salting patterns

discovery · afternoon

Jenny made a sketch: "Mooring ring's failure mode in the margins between sea beet observations".

made · evening

clear path to spring: 74%.

project · evening

The rain tank gained about 25 litres.

weather · evening

Kevin and Jenny ate.

meal · evening

← Day 439 Day 441 →

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