Day 526

Already on it. Housing's clean, O-ring's supple. Just blowing the element now.

Hold the filter element to my mouth and blow sharp, steady bursts, watching for debris, then reseat it in the housing and hand-tighten the bowl.

Line's bled. I cracked the bleed screw till it ran clear, then snugged it back. No bubbles.

Give the fuel line a quick visual check from tank to pump, then wipe the fittings dry with a rag from the bench.

I'll go. You sit. I'll check the tank and top it if we're under 350.

Stand, leave the filter bench, and walk toward the cottage at a steady pace, keeping my hands loose at my sides.

On it—tin first, then the door!

Grab the heirloom seed tin from the path, tuck it under my arm, and sprint for the cottage door, yanking it shut and bolting it behind Jenny as the rain starts to hammer the roof.

Seal's holding. No water inside. Let me look at your ankle.

Kneel beside her, gently take her boot off, and inspect the bandage under the pant leg—checking for seepage, swelling, or fresh signs of infection while the rain drums on the roof.

Got it. Hold still.

Rise quickly, grab the saline pouch and tweezers from the aid kit, return to her side, and begin carefully lifting the old bandage to clean the wound with saline, then inspect for debris or signs of worsening infection.

You shouldn’t be out here in this. Let me take the water buckets back to the cottage.

Walk up to Jenny, take the two full water buckets from her hands, and carry them toward the cottage steps, keeping my pace slow so she can follow without strain.

You’ve been on your feet since dawn. Sit. I’ll check the planks myself — and I’ll bring you a dry shirt when I’m done.

Set the water buckets down just inside the cottage door, then turn and walk back toward the dock, moving quickly but carefully over the slick planks, eyes scanning for the worst of the rot as I go.

I’ll test them first — from the end, where it’s still solid. If they hold, I’ll work my way back. Stay here. I’ll shout if it goes.

Walk to the very end of the dock, where the pilings are still sound, and place one foot gently on the nearest plank, shifting my weight slowly to feel for give or flex before committing fully.

It’s gone. The planks are shot from the mid-point out. I’ll come back and we’ll jury-rig a walkway from the shore — use the spare timber from the shed. No point risking it.

Shift my weight back onto the sound piling at the end, step off carefully onto the dry timber, and walk back toward the cottage, keeping close to the shore side where the wood is still intact.

I’ll heat the water. You just tell me if it’s too hot.

fill kettle from rain tank, place on wood stove, light kindling with match from shelf, blow on embers until flame catches.

I’ll sit here. Quiet. Just in case you need a hand.

pull second kitchen chair close to hers, sit down, hands resting on knees, eyes on the steam rising from the basin, not on her.

Kevin — remain still, watch the light fall across the table—how it catches the salt in the water, the glint of the tweezers, the way her jaw tightens only when she presses in. Don’t move. Don’t speak. Just be here.

I’m right here.

reach slowly, not for her ankle, but for the clean gauze beside the basin, fold it once, lay it gently on the table within her reach—then return my hands to my knees, eyes low, waiting.

When you’re done, I’ll make tea. No sugar. Just the way you like it.

stand slowly, walk to the shelf, take down the chipped blue mug—the one she uses—rinse it quickly in the basin, set it on the stove to warm, then return to the chair and sit without speaking, eyes on her hands, not her face.

I’ve got the mug warming. Whenever you’re ready.

remain seated, shoulders loose, hands open on my knees, watching the way her thumb traces the edge of the gauze—soft, careful, like she’s saying goodbye to the pain. Not speaking. Not moving. Just here.

"I’ll handle the tank seals after you’re done sketching. No rush." (I keep my voice low, not looking up from wiping the rain off the radio shelf.)

continue wiping the radio shelf with a dry cloth, waiting for her to finish her sketch.

"They’re ready. I’ll bring them over." (I say it plainly, already moving toward the stove.)

lift the lid off the pot of boiled limpets, scoop a generous portion into the cast iron skillet, and carry it to the table where Jenny is sitting. I set it down gently beside her notebook, then pull out the chair opposite her and sit.

nothing. I don’t speak unless she does.

sit quietly, hands resting on my knees, eyes on her as she eats. When she’s halfway through, I slowly reach for the skillet and take a limpets for myself—no more, no less. I eat slow, matching her pace.

Yeah. Sounds like it’s really letting loose." (I keep my voice even, eyes on my plate.) "You want me to move the skillet off the heat? It’s getting dry.

wait for her answer before touching the pan. If she says yes, I’ll lift it carefully to the back of the stove. If she says no, I’ll leave it be. Either way, I won’t move unless she asks—or unless she looks like she needs me to.

The lantern’s low. I’ll refill it if you want light to keep sketching.

walk to the shelf, pick up the kerosene can, unscrew the lantern top, and pour fuel slowly until it’s full, then relight the wick.

Take your time. I’ll be right here.

sit quietly on the bench beside her, hands loose in my lap, eyes on the rain streaking the window.