Day 660

Barometer's at 976. Dropping two, three millibars an hour.

lean back against the porch post, watching the rain sheet across the garden, one hand resting on the radio shelf

Roof held last blow. Seals are sound.

reach for the tin mug beside her, blow across the steam rising from the broth, hold it out without looking at her face

Eat slow. More in the pot.

shift weight off the bad ankle, pull the blanket tighter around her legs where it's draped over the bucket, keep eyes on the tree line where the wind's bending the spruce

Tin's sealed. Newspaper wrap's holding. Desiccant's still blue.

reach over and brush a damp strand of hair back from her forehead, fingers lingering a second on skin that's too warm, then pull back to the radio shelf and turn the squelch knob — static hisses, then a Spanish trawler's voice cuts through,

Vigo Star. Bearing three-four-zero. Eighteen miles out. Heading one-two knots — trawling, not transiting.

adjust the volume knob down a notch, let the static settle between position calls, watch her face in the grey light

Pressure's coming up. Wind's shifting northwest. If it holds, the boat gets through in four days.

pour the last of the limpet broth into two tin mugs and push one across the table to Jenny

Mast's sound. New insulator's sealed, coax continuity checked. But check it anyway — your eyes catch what mine miss.

set my own mug down, steam rising, and pull the notebook toward me to flip to the radio maintenance page

Eat the fat too. You need it.

reach across the table and turn the seed tin so the 'E' marking faces her, a silent question

Didn't say you didn't.

drink from my mug, the rich oil coating my throat, and watch the barometer needle climb another fraction

Front's here. Wind's northwest now.

Walk to the porch door and check the weatherproofing on the hinges and latch, then step outside to inspect the shutters on the windward side.

Kitchen window next. Stay off it.

Walk to the kitchen window, test the latch, and reinforce it with a wedge if there's any play. Then check the south-facing shutters are battened tight.

Wedging it now.

Pull a cedar shim from the bundle by the workbench, drive it into the window frame gap above the latch with the mallet until the rattle stops, then test the latch again to confirm it holds solid.

Sill's tight. Water runs off, not in.

Step back, wipe rain off my forearms, and glance at the barometer on the shelf — 982 now, still falling. Then move to the porch to check the generator shed lashings before the wind gusts higher.

I'll check the base plates and add a line if the timber's giving.

Walk to the generator shed, test the corners for movement by pushing against the frame, inspect the base plates where they meet the stone footings, and if there's any flex, run a ratchet strap from the shed's windward corner to the nearest

Radio's picking up the Spanish trawler on 16. They're thirty miles west, heading northeast. If we need them, they'll hear us.

Walk to the porch and check the VHF battery charge indicator, then lift the lid on the dry bag to confirm the medevac forms and blank paper are still sealed inside.

DSC works without voice. Position goes out automatic. You let me look at the ankle at first light, we decide then.

Crouch beside her on the step and gently peel back the poultice wrap to check for spreading red streaks past the knee, keeping my voice level.

Alright. Not tonight.

Let go of the wrap and sit back on my heels, reaching for the tin mug of limpet broth I left on the porch rail — hold it out to her without looking at her face.

Drink it slow. There's more in the pot.

Stand stiffly and walk to the radio shelf, switching on the VHF to check the battery voltage readout while the wind generator whines outside.

North piling brace is new. Oak mortise, three through-bolts, pegs driven wet. It'll take the load.

walk to the porch and lean on the rail, watching the water lap the dock beams

The overflow channel held last week. Copper pipe and hose took it to the grass slope. Foundation's drier than it's been in months.

glance at the tin on the shelf, then back at the dock through the window

The deadman anchors are set. Wall's two courses higher than when we started. But the slope keeps moving. We'll need more anchors before winter.

pull out the chair opposite her and sit, forearms on knees

The bedrock's fifteen feet down at the cottage. Thirty at the dock. We're not on a slide plane here. But the garden wall — that's different. It's on fill.

reach for the tin mug on the table, find it cold, set it back down

The wall's held three storms since we raised it. But the soil behind it... that's the question.

stand and walk to the window, watching the tide flatten against the dock pilings

Then we make sure the soil doesn't go. French drain behind the wall. Deeper footings. More deadmen. We have the greenheart offcuts, the chain, the epoxy. We have time before planting season ends.

turn from the window, lean against the stove

On it.

grab the 19mm wrench and the spare timber strips from the porch, pull the door shut behind me, and work the kitchen shutter bolts in the driving rain

Aye. Coming in.

tighten the last bolt on the kitchen shutter, toss the wrench back through the porch door, and step inside shaking water off my oilskins

Ta.

peel off the soaked oilskin and hang it on the porch hooks, pull the wool blanket from the bed and wrap it around my shoulders, sit on the stool by the stove and hold my hands to the heat

Aye. Mint tea.

take the tin mug she sets on the table, blow steam off the top, and watch her fingers work the seed packets — steady despite the swelling in her ankle