Day 599

Barometer's holding at 992. Steady for six hours now. Might actually hold.

Set the barometer back on the shelf and pull the wool blanket tighter around my shoulders, keeping my eyes on the window where the rain hits the glass sideways.

Not hoping. Just noticing.

Reach for the tin mug on the bedside shelf — cold tea from three hours ago — and drink it in one swallow without grimacing.

Yeah.

Push up from the bed and cross to the kitchen in three strides, pour from the iron pot on the stove into the tin mug, and bring it back to the bedside without spilling a drop.

Sketches look good. The gland density gradient — you got the transition zone clean.

Sit back on the edge of the bed, mug warming my palms, and watch the rain streak the window instead of looking at her face.

Going to the dock. Back in twenty.

Walk to the dock, inspect mooring ring, sister plank, and stern lines for chafe or movement.

Seen it. Bow's riding the bite. Stern springs holding?

Step onto the dock, test the main bow line tension with a boot against the cleat, then check both stern springs where they lead to the mooring ring and north piling.

Right. Looking now.

Crouch at the mooring ring, pull the doubled stern spring tight against the mortise to examine the chafe guard and serving; then move to the north piling and check the second spring's contact point.

Ring's serving gone. Piling hose slipped. Fixing both now.

Cut two lengths of sail twine, re-serve the mooring ring stern spring where it bites the mortise, then slide the chafe hose back up the north piling spring and seize it in place with twine.

You awake?

walk into the bedroom, set a hand on the doorframe, look at Jenny on the cot

Rain's here. Barometer's holding at 993. Boat's still five days out.

walk to the cot, crouch down, peel back the edge of the poultice wrap to check the ankle

Not touching. Just looking. Heat's down from yesterday though.

stay crouched, don't reach for it again, glance at the basin with the salt water cooling on the stove

Two metronidazole left. Take one now, one tonight. I'll mix fresh poultice — sea beet, mint, honey. And a salt soak after.

stand, walk to the kitchen, pull the mortar and pestle from the shelf, start gathering sea beet leaves from the basin

Stay off it.

Walk to the stove, lift the kettle, pour hot water into her tin mug, set it on the table beside her without a word.

Kevin — pull out the chair opposite her, sit, watch the steam rise from my own mug, wait for the ache in my shoulders to settle from the roof work.

Not the roof. The northeast wall. Mortar's failing above the window.

Lift my mug, blow across the surface, take a sip, set it down and wipe the back of my hand across my mouth.

I'll move them.

Finish the mug in one swallow, stand, wipe the table clean with the heel of my hand, head for the porch door.

Five days minimum. Skipper was holding at South Stack yesterday. This blow'll keep him there longer.

Reach for the tin mug on the bedside table, lift it to her lips. "Drink. Broth and water. Antibiotics are working but you're burning through fluid."

The heirloom packets are dry. Re-wrapped in newspaper with desiccant. Tin E's under the porch tarp — damp, yes. But the seeds inside held. I checked.

Set the mug back on the table, pull the wool blanket up to her chin. "Rest now. The tin's not going anywhere and neither are you."

You'll see the soil from the porch. I'll bring you samples. pH strips, auger cores, whatever you need. But you're not walking those paths tomorrow.

Sit back on the stool, pick up the notebook from the shelf, flip to the soil pH log page. "Lime beds holding 6.8 to 7.0. Untreated still 5.5 to 5.8. Sea beet transect zones match what you sketched — saline gradient tracks elevation."

The lime's crushed and ready at the shed. Two barrows worth. I'll work it into the top six inches of the untreated rows tonight while you sleep. By morning the rain'll have washed it down.

Take the pencil from her fingers, close the notebook, set both on the table. "The beds aren't lost. But you are if you don't sleep. Hand me your sketch — I'll finish the gland density notes from your dictation if it keeps you horizontal."

They're dry.

Wipe my palms again on my thighs anyway, out of habit, then open the notebook to the sea beet page. Prop it against the water jug where the light catches it. "Talk. I'll draw."

Storm's hitting. Going to check the dinghy and garden.

Walk to the dock to check dinghy lines and chafe gear.

Lines only. Be right back.

Check dinghy bow and stern lines at the dock, verify chafe gear, then return to cottage.