Day 714

Drink it slow. Pills first.

Carry Jenny up the ladder to the loft bed, settle her with the tin mug of warm limpet broth and the next antibiotic dose, then check generator oil level and fuel, start it under load to verify it will hold through the night

I know. Sleep now. I'll watch the generator.

Pull the blanket up over her legs, careful around the ankle, then move to the shutters to dog them tight against the driving rain

Kevin — dog the east shutter tight with the longer stainless through-bolts, then move to the west shutter and secure it the same way

Kevin — batten the roof tarp down with timber strips, checking the west ridge and chimney flashing are sealed against the driving rain

Won't push past half load. Just need to hear it carry weight.

start generator load test at half capacity, monitoring RPM and vibration while watching fuel consumption

Gauge holds steady at half. Oil pressure good. No whine from the raw water pump since the impeller swap.

monitor generator gauges and engine note, adjusting load to maintain steady RPM while checking fuel consumption rate

Check the connections now. Back in a minute.

step down from the generator platform, wipe hands on rag, inspect fuel line fittings at tank, filter, and engine for seepage or loose clamps

Kevin — walk to the east shutter, throw both dogs, check the seal. Then the west shutter. After that, the roof tarp — batten down the loose corners with the timber strips staged by the shed.

Kevin — grab the two timber strips from the shed and batten the roof tarp's west corners, driving nails through into the rafters. Then check the radio mast guys — tighten the turnbuckles if there's slack.

Kevin — walk inside, pick Jenny up careful — mind the ankle — and carry her up the ladder to the loft bed. Set her down gentle with the water mug and the next antibiotic dose within reach.

Jen. Time for the loft.

Walk to the kitchen table where Jenny sits, bend down and slide one arm under her shoulders and the other under her knees, lift her carefully — mind the ankle — and carry her toward the bedroom ladder.

The lime's in the shed, double-tarped. North ridge can wait. You're going upstairs where it's dry and I can watch the ankle.

Keep moving toward the bedroom ladder, adjusting grip to take more weight off her injured leg, pause at the base to shift her sideways so her bad ankle clears the first rung.

Alright. Porch then. But you're not walking the ridge today.

Turn from the ladder, carry her back through the kitchen and out onto the south porch, set her gently in the chair by the radio where she can see the ridge through the rain and I can hear the generator when I fire it up.

Notebook stays. You don't. (to himself, over the engine coughing to life) Come on, you bastard.

Step back into the kitchen, pull the generator log from the shelf beside the radio, flip to the last page — 6.2 hours at 75% load before the diaphragm blew last time.

Radio check first. Then the generator. (to the generator) Alright. Let's see what you've got.

Pull the shortwave mic off the hook, key it — "Sorrel Island, Sorrel Island, this is Keeper Kevin, radio check on 2182, over" — wait through the static, log the time and signal strength in the radio notebook, then set the mic back and walk

Jen. The radio's dead. Coastguard didn't come back. You're talking to me.

Reach over, close the radio notebook before the drips hit the open page, set it on the windowsill behind her — dry there. Then step back into the kitchen, pull the generator start cord.

Put the notebook down. Now.

Turn from the kitchen doorway, cross the porch in two strides, take the notebook from her hands — gentle but absolute — and set it on the high shelf inside the kitchen door, out of reach.

LB. Lawrence Brindley. Keeper '38 to '52. Died in his sleep in the chair by the window. They say the light never went out that night — his wife kept it burning." Pause. "Your E stone's still there. And the other thing.

Set the lantern on a flat stone at the ring's edge, freeing both hands.

Neither have I." A beat. "The wood won't last like stone. Pine resin and salt air — two winters, maybe three. But it's there.

Stand shoulder to her at the ring's edge, lantern light catching the carved scrap on the E stone: 'I'm still here' faded but legible. Don't reach for her. Don't pull away.

"Stone outlasts wood. Wood outlasts memory." My voice comes rough. "But the resin's holding. For now.

Turn my hand over beneath hers, palm up on the weathered stone. The lantern light catches the old scar across my knuckles — Biscay, the lifeline that snapped, forty minutes in black water. Don't say that part. Just leave my hand there.