Day 959

The Line Past the Knee

Rain drummed the tin roof at dawn. Kevin heated salt water, laid out sterilized tools, and handed Jenny two doxycycline capsules with a mug of water. "Water's hot. Let it cool a minute. Take the doxycycline first — empty stomach absorbs it better." She swallowed, then let him unwrap the ankle. The red line had sharpened overnight. "It's... spreading. Red edges getting sharper," she said. He debrided the wound, applied a fresh sea beet poultice, and wrapped it in gauze. The tank gained twenty-five litres. By midday the fever sat at 39.5°C and the cellulitis tracked past her knee. Jenny refused another debridement. "Don't... Please. Just... let me rest." Kevin set a cool cloth on the swelling. "Two hours. Next dose. Then we look again."

He tested the Yanmar's new impeller at idle but deferred load testing — humidity made the work stifling. The generator's fuel line wept diesel at the tank bracket rub point, a hairline split from vibration fatigue. He repaired the diesel can seam to ninety percent. At evening they walked the ridge path to the shrine stones. Jenny leaned on a driftwood cane, exhausted, ankle throbbing. She left a seed packet among the weathered names. "The stones remember what we forgot to name," she said. "Just a promise for a garden that actually grows." Kevin helped her back as the barometer read 999 hPa and rising. Inside, the air thick with sea-beet smell, he checked the ankle again. "Spread past the mark. Two centimeters. Hot. I'll put fresh poultice on — cool it down." She drank broth. The storm had not yet broken.

Scenes

the keeper's cottage · dawn

Morning debridement

Jenny sits on the wooden bench while the steady rain drums on the tin roof. Kevin prepares the basin of warm salt water and the sterilized tools for the ankle treatment. The water tank is nearing capacity as the downpour continues to pour.

Kevin administered the morning dose of doxycycline to Jenny while preparing a salt soak for her ankle. He debrided the wound and applied a fresh sea beet poultice before wrapping it in gauze. The rain continues to fill the water tank to its capacity.

🔧 Kevin12:55

Water's hot. Let it cool a minute. Take the doxycycline first — empty stomach absorbs it better.

set the tin mug with two doxycycline tablets and a spoon on the bench beside her, then lift the basin of steaming salt water onto the low stool in front of her feet

💭 thought

She's watching me set up. Good. Let her see the routine — basin, salt, clean gauze, the antibiotics laid out in order. The fever broke sometime after midnight; her breathing's deeper now. But the red line on her calf hasn't retreated. If it's still tracking by noon, the boat can't wait for the tide window.

🌿 Jenny12:56

I know. Just wait...

swallow the pills with a grimace, wincing as the movement sends a throb up to the knee.

💭 thought

My head is a furnace and my leg feels like it's being eaten by hot acid.

🔧 Kevin12:56

Good. Now the leg.

kneel on the wooden floor, unfold a clean gauze roll on my thigh, and reach for the first layer of wrapping at her ankle

💭 thought

She's protecting the leg — keeping weight off it, moving careful. The grimace tells me the inflammation's still deep, not just surface. Knee joint involvement would mean the antibiotics aren't penetrating fast enough. Need to watch the popliteal fossa when I unwrap.

🌿 Jenny12:57

Kevin...

watch his fingers work, methodically stripping away the old, saturated gauze, the rustling sound like dry leaves in the storm.

💭 thought

His hands are shaking but steady. God, his hands are shaking.

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the keeper's cottage · morning

Day 959, Midday

The rain lulls against the roof as the air inside grows damp with the smell of salt and antiseptic. The tide continues to rise, la the lower rocks of the dock.

Kevin held off on debriding Jenny's ankle at her request, applying a cool cloth instead and waiting for the next antibiotic dose. Jenny rested with a high fever, the infection tracking upward past her knee. The warm rain continued on and off through the morning.

🌿 Jenny13:01

(Low groan)

Reach for the damp cloth on the nightstand and press it to my forehead.

💭 thought

My skin is burning, but the room feels like ice. If the fever breaks again, I'm done.

🔧 Kevin13:01

Morning. How's the head?

walk to the bedroom doorway and stand there, arms crossed, watching her face in the grey light

💭 thought

She's burning through the sheets. The groan tells me more than the thermometer did — fever's climbing again, not breaking. Need to check the wound before the next dose window.

🌿 Jenny13:03

Hot." (Voice thin, cracked) "And this ankle...

Pull the gauze wrap up slightly to show the swelling, then let it fall back down.

💭 thought

He thinks "head" covers the whole mess—the infection, the weakness, the part of me that's already leaving.

🔧 Kevin13:03

Let me see it proper. Take the wrap off.

step to the bedside and crouch down, reaching for the gauze end with careful fingers

💭 thought

Swelling tracking up past the ankle now. Red line creeping. That's not good. Next antibiotic dose in two hours — doxycycline first, then metronidazole four hours after. Need to check the wound properly, not just a glance through gauze.

🌿 Jenny13:05

(Voice barely rising above the rain) "It's... spreading. Red edges getting sharper."

Pull the gauze away from my ankle, revealing the swollen, puce-colored skin that's begun to separate at the edges.

💭 thought

Every time he looks at me like this, I'm dissecting a specimen I'm no longer qualified to name.

🔧 Kevin13:05

Hold still.

press the back of my hand lightly along the calf, mapping the heat boundary, then reach for the scalpel and fresh gauze on the nightstand

💭 thought

Cellulitis marching up the calf. Skin shiny, hot to touch even from here. The debridement yesterday bought time but the infection's winning. Need to lance again if there's fluctuance — can't tell through the edema. Two hours to next dose. She needs fluids, cooling, and I need to decide if we're cutting or riding the antibiotics.

🌿 Jenny13:07

Don't..." (Stop him with a hand, the fever making my voice thin) "Please. Just... let me rest.

Turn slightly away from him, pressing my palm against the cool window glass, watching the rain streak downward like the island itself is bleeding.

💭 thought

The red line moves like a tide mark—inevitable, marking what the medicine can't reach.

🔧 Kevin13:07

Two hours. Next dose. Then we look again.

set the scalpel down untouched, soak the cloth in the basin, wring it out, and lay it across her forehead and neck

💭 thought

She's refusing. Fever talking, or the part of her that's done being cut. But that leg's two hours from sepsis if the antibiotics don't catch up. Can't force her — she'd fight, and she's got nothing left to fight with. I'll wait the two hours, dose her, then reassess. If the line's moved past the knee by then, I cut whether she wants it or not. For now, water. Cool cloth. The radio log says supply boat tomorrow 0430 tide. Twenty-six hours.

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the keeper's cottage · midday

Antibiotic dose and hard truths

Midday rain drums on the cottage roof. Kevin sits beside Jenny's bed with the antibiotic blister pack and a mug of water. The two-hour mark has come. Jenny's eyes are open, fever-bright, fixed on his face. The letter from the trust sits in the dry bag on the shelf, unspoken between them.

Kevin administered Jenny's scheduled antibiotic dose while monitoring the spread of the cellulitis. He tested the Yanmar engine under load to verify the new impeller, but the high humidity makes the work stifling.

🌿 Jenny13:11

The poultice isn't reaching the infection. It's deeper than the skin.

reach for the sea beet leaves still wrapped in damp cloth on the bedside table, fingers finding the edges despite the shaking

💭 thought

The infection's creeping up my leg again, past the mid-calf red line I drew this morning. Two hours and another dose - but the boat's manifest said they'd bring more antibiotics tomorrow. If they're light on medical supplies like last time... Kevin's hands are steady enough holding the blister pack, but I can see the question in his eyes. About the letter. About us. About whether this island will take me before the seeds do.

🔧 Kevin13:11

Next dose is due. Swallow these with the water. All of it.

press two doxycycline tablets and one metronidazole from the blister pack into her palm, then hold the mug steady for her to drink

💭 thought

She's right. The heat's tracking past the marked line. I can see the red creeping up her calf past where I drew the boundary this morning. The poultice only draws surface heat — this needs the drugs in her blood, and time we're running short on.

🌿 Jenny13:13

I know. I know.

swallow the pills, wincing as the heat in my leg pulses painfully, then forcing the water down.

💭 thought

My throat feels like it's lined with dry sand. Every swallow is a battle. He's looking at me like I'm a specimen that's already past the point. If the boat doesn't come with the real stuff, I won't have the strength to even open the tin of seeds.

🔧 Kevin13:13

Rest now. I'll check the boundary in two hours. If the red's past the knee, I lance again.

pull the blanket up to her shoulders and set the empty mug on the bedside table, then move to the kitchen to check the radio log

💭 thought

Good. She took them without argument. The doxycycline hits the broad spectrum, metronidazole for the anaerobic deep tissue. Fourteen doses each. That's seven days if the supply boat comes through tomorrow. If it doesn't, we stretch — half doses, longer intervals. But the boat's coming. Captain said 0430 tide.

🌿 Jenny13:15

Don't wait long.

close my eyes and try to fight the fever, my breath coming in shallow, ragged rasps.

💭 thought

Two hours is an eternity when the heat is moving this fast. I can feel it under the skin, a slow fire. If it hits the joint, I won't be able to walk at all.

🔧 Kevin13:15

Two hours. I'll be here.

sit at the kitchen table with the shortwave, key 2182 and listen for any traffic while the barometer holds steady at 998

💭 thought

She's burning through the sheets. Two hours. I'll wake her at the mark whether she's sleeping or not. The radio log shows Captain's confirmation on 2182 — replacement impeller, full antibiotic resupply, 0430 high tide tomorrow. That's eighteen hours. Eighteen doses if we hold the line. The letter in the dry bag weighs more than the anchor chain. She knows about Tom. She's known since she found it in her pack. Neither of us said a word.

🌿 Jenny13:17

Jenny — lie still, watching the shadows move across the stone wall, counting the pulses in my ankle.

💭 thought

The silence of the island is heavier than the fever. I can hear the blood thumping in my leg, a dull rhythm that matches the rain on the roof. If I go, grandmother's seeds will just rot in that tin.

🔧 Kevin13:17

Kevin — reach into the dry bag on the shelf and pull out the trust letter, turning it over in my hands without opening it

💭 thought

Static on 2182. Nothing but atmospheric hiss and a distant Spanish trawler's engine noise fading east. The barometer hasn't moved in six hours — 998, steady. That's either a long window or the calm before something the glass hasn't caught yet. Supply boat's due on the 0430 tide. Eighteen hours. Jenny's fever hasn't broken. The red line on her calf was three centimeters past the knee when I marked it at 1000. If it's reached mid-calf by 1400, I lance deeper. No more poultice games. The trust letter in the dry bag says 'no further resupply commitments.' Means this was it. Means they're done with us after tomorrow. Or means they're done with the island. I should tell her. I said I would. The words sit in my throat like a fish bone.

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the keeper's cottage · afternoon

The evening chill

The sun begins to dip as the humidity thickens. Kevin enters the cottage to check her temperature before dusk.

Kevin sat with Jenny through the afternoon as her fever held at 39.5°C and the cellulitis tracked upward past her knee. He monitored the Yanmar's new impeller install at idle but deferred load testing. The generator's fuel line developed a steady weep at the tank bracket rub point, pooling diesel on the shed floor.

🔧 Kevin13:18

Jenny. Let me check you.

walk into the bedroom, set the back of my hand against her forehead, then reach for the thermometer on the shelf

💭 thought

Her breathing sounds rough from the porch. If the fever's climbed again, the doxycycline isn't holding it alone — need the metronidazole on board before nightfall. The boat's due on the 0430 tide. That's hours yet.

🌿 Jenny13:19

It's way hot, Kevin. Just stop.

Shift away from his touch, wincing as the movement pulls at the knee.

💭 thought

My skin is too thin for this heat, and the air is like soup.

🔧 Kevin13:20

The metronidazole's due. Open your mouth.

pull the blister pack from my jacket pocket, pop a tablet through the foil, hold it out with the tin mug of water

💭 thought

She's burning up and the infection's tracking past the knee. Stubborn won't keep her alive. The metronidazole's in my pocket — need to get it in her with water, then the cool cloths. Boat's not here until 0430.

🌿 Jenny13:21

In a minute.

Take the pill from his hand and swallow with a painful gulp of water.

💭 thought

I can't even swallow without my throat feeling like sandpaper.

🔧 Kevin13:22

Alright. Rest now.

set the mug on the bedside shelf, dip a clean cloth in the water basin, wring it out, lay it across her forehead

💭 thought

Good. It's down. Now the fever — cool cloths, wet sheet, fan if the generator holds. And the wound needs looking at before dark. She won't let me near it if I push. Have to wait for the drugs to take the edge off.

🌿 Jenny13:23

Stay close.

Close my eyes, listening to the heavy thrum of the pulse in my leg.

💭 thought

The cloth is cold for a second, but the fever is already drinking it dry.

🔧 Kevin13:24

Not going anywhere.

pull the wooden chair close to the bed, sit down, rest my forearms on my knees, watch her face in the dim light

💭 thought

She's asking. Not telling. That's new. The fever's making her say things she wouldn't otherwise. I'll sit here until it breaks or the boat arrives — whichever comes first.

🌿 Jenny13:25

It gets so quiet here.

Reach out a shaky hand to touch the edge of his sleeve, then pull it back.

💭 thought

He looks like he's waiting for me to break, and maybe I am.

🔧 Kevin13:26

The boat comes tomorrow. 0430 tide. Impeller, antibiotics, fresh food.

stay seated, don't reach for her hand, don't pull away either

💭 thought

She's reaching and pulling back in the same breath. The fever's loosening something. Or the letter did. I should say something — about the boat, about Tom, about why I'm still here. The words don't come.

🌿 Jenny13:27

You better be.

Turn away from him, pulling the damp sheets over my burning skin.

💭 thought

If that boat doesn't show, I'm just another skeleton for the island.

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the old shrine · evening

Evening at the shrine stones

Kevin and Jenny walk the ridge path together as the light fails, Jenny leaning hard on her driftwood cane. The air is thick and still at 30°C. The barometer reads 999 hPa and rising. They reach the ring of weathered stones carved with names they never knew — LB among them — and stand in the failing light while the tide turns somewhere below.

Kevin and Jenny return from the shrine as the humidity thickens and the sky darkens with a coming storm. Jenny is exhausted, her ankle swollen and throbbing, her fever spiking to 39.5°C as cellulitis spreads toward her knee. She leaves a small packet of seeds among the weathered shrine stones as a promise for the future, while Kevin helps her back toward the cottage.

🌿 Jenny13:31

The stones remember what we forgot to name.

place hand on the 'LB' stone, feel its weathered surface through my palm, then pull a small packet from my jacket pocket and set it gently among the stones

💭 thought

LB carved into stone, quartz pebble in my pocket matching it. The barometer's wrong—should be dropping with this heat, but it's climbing. That means pressure's building, which means either clearing weather or something brewing. The infection's still burning, but I need to plant these seeds before I lose the soil capability entirely.

🔧 Kevin13:31

What'd you leave?

step closer to the stones, one hand finding her elbow steady, eyes on the packet nestled in the lichen

💭 thought

She's leaving something. A packet. At the shrine. My jaw tightens — the only tell I've got left. The light's going fast and her cane's sinking in the soft ground. She's burning up and I'm letting her walk the ridge.

🌿 Jenny13:33

Just a promise for a garden that actually grows.

lean my weight on the cane, watching the wind catch the edge of the paper.

💭 thought

My way's seeds. If I don't put them in the earth now, the salt will just rot them like everything else. I'm too tired to even hold the tin anymore.

🔧 Kevin13:33

You've said that before.

reach out and catch the paper's edge before the wind takes it, thumb brushing cold fingers

💭 thought

A promise for a garden. She's been saying that for eleven months. The paper lifts in the wind — seed packets, maybe, or the sketch she made of the beds. My chest goes tight. She thinks she's not staying. Or she thinks I'm not.

🌿 Jenny13:35

This time I actually have the soil mapped out.

let out a long, way breath, closing my eyes as the throb in my knee pulses in time with the tide.

💭 thought

Every time I say it, the island gets a little bigger. The fever is a roar in my ears and I'm just waiting to become part of the ridge.

🔧 Kevin13:35

Come on. Down now. Cottage. Bed.

tuck the packet into my jacket pocket, wrap my arm around her waist, and turn her toward the path home

💭 thought

She's fading fast. The fever's won the afternoon. Her eyes are closed and she's swaying on that cane, breathing like each one costs her. The soil map's in her head and the packet's in my hand and the tide's turning below us. I should've brought the stretcher. I should've made her stay in the cottage. Pride kills more sailors than storms.

🌿 Jenny13:37

Just a few more steps, love. I can make it.

lean into his support as we begin the descent, one hand gripping the cane, the other finding purchase on the stone wall that borders the ridge.

💭 thought

The cottage is too far, the bed too soft for what's coming. But the packet stays safe, and that's enough for now.

🔧 Kevin13:37

I've got you. Just breathe.

shorten my stride to match hers, boots testing each stone before she commits weight, the cottage lights a faint smudge through the gathering dark

💭 thought

She calls me love when she's exhausted. When the pain strips the guards away. My arm locks around her ribs, feeling heat radiate through her shirt — 39.5 at least, maybe higher now. Each step down she takes is a negotiation. The stone wall's slick with moss. One wrong placement and we're both sliding. The barometer's rising but the air's still thick. Storm's not done with us.

🌿 Jenny13:39

The packet's safe.

stop halfway down, press my palm flat against a weathered stone, then nod toward the cottage as the first drops of rain begin to patter on the path.

💭 thought

His hand on my back is steady, but I can feel the fever climbing again with every step. The barometer should be warning me about the tide, but instead it's rising like a promise I'm not ready to keep.

🔧 Kevin13:39

Packet's in my pocket. You're not leaving anything behind.

keep moving, steady pressure at her waist, one eye on the slick path and one on the cottage porch light swinging in the freshening breeze

💭 thought

She's marking the path. Touching stone to stone like she's stitching herself to the island. The rain's starting — fat drops hitting dust, raising that sharp earth scent. Her hand stays on the rock a beat too long. She's not just tired. She's saying goodbye to something. Or someone. The packet's in my pocket, warm against my ribs. The cottage is fifty metres. Maybe sixty. Every metre costs.

🌿 Jenny13:41

Down to the cottage, then we can check the water levels before the storm hits.

let Kevin's steady presence steady my steps as we navigate the slick stones, feeling the first real hope of keeping both the seeds and the soil alive.

💭 thought

The packet's in his pocket but I can still feel its weight against my heart. The infection's spreading faster than the rain, and the barometer's climbing like it wants to trap us here.

🔧 Kevin13:41

Tank's near full. Overflow's holding. We'll check it from the porch.

guide her the last ten metres up the porch steps, shoulder taking the door frame as I kick the screen door open with my boot

💭 thought

Water levels. She's already planning. The infection's eating her alive and she's thinking about the garden's irrigation. That's the woman I married. The porch light's closer now — yellow halo in the rain. The generator's running rough somewhere behind the cottage, that weep I zip-tied still holding. Tank's at 394 litres and climbing. If the overflow holds. If the foundation doesn't give. If the antibiotics reach blood fast enough. Too many ifs for a man who fixes engines with certainty.

🌿 Jenny13:43

Then we check the ankle first, see what we're working with.

step inside and immediately head for the kitchen table where my antibiotics are laid out, running a hand along the counter to steady myself before the next dose.

💭 thought

The water's holding, but my body's not. Fever 39.5, cellulitis tracking up my leg, and the barometer says it's going to rain harder. If the tank overflows before I can secure it, the salt water will kill everything I've planted.

🔧 Kevin13:43

Sit. I'll get the dose.

pull out a chair, press her down into it by the shoulder, move to the table and pop two doxycycline and two metronidazole from the blister packs into my palm

💭 thought

She's steering. Ankle first, then water, then garden, then storm. Her priorities are straight even if her legs aren't. The kitchen's warm — stove still holding heat from the broth. Antibiotics on the table: doxycycline, metronidazole, trimethoprim. Fourteen doses each. The blister packs catch the lantern light. Her ankle's wrapped tight under the gauze, the sea beet poultice seeping through. I can smell the infection sweet-rot from here. Next dose is due. She knows it. She's waiting for me to hand it to her.

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the keeper's cottage · night

The Approaching Storm

They reach the cottage just as the first heavy drops of the wet season rain hit the parched earth roof.

The air in the cottage is thick with humidity and the smell of sea-beet poultice. Jenny sits at the kitchen table, her skin flushed and tight as the fever climbs to 39.5°C. Kevin has applied the cooling poultice to her swollen ankle and wrapped it in fresh gauze, watching the throbbing line of cellulitis while the world outside remains heavy with the weight of the coming storm.

🌿 Jenny13:45

Kevin... help me get to the table. I need to sit.

Slumps heavily into the kitchen chair, way the edge as she wanes through a wave of nausea.

💭 thought

My leg is on fire and the world is turning grey; I can't even feel my toes anymore.

🔧 Kevin13:45

Sit. I'll get the meds and water.

fetch the antibiotic blister packs from my jacket pocket, the tin mug from the stove shelf, and bring them to the table; pour warm water from the kettle into the mug

💭 thought

She's burning up. The infection's past her knee now. Need to get the next antibiotic dose in her, check the wound again, and keep her hydrated. The rain's here — tank will fill, but humidity will make everything harder.

🌿 Jenny13:47

Thank you. Just... don't let the rain get in the garden yet. Check the tarp.

Grips the table edge, knuckles white, watching the water swirl in the mug while another wave of heat rolls through her.

💭 thought

The water's warm, but I can taste salt in my mouth anyway—whatever's left of my body is leaking out. The infection's moving faster than those tablets can catch up.

🔧 Kevin13:47

Tarp's battened. Corners staked. Drink this.

press the mug into her hands; pop two doxycycline tablets from the blister pack and set them on the table beside her; pull out the chair opposite and sit, watching her swallow

💭 thought

She's thinking about the garden while her leg rots. Stubborn. The tarp held through worse — I checked the corners this morning. But she needs something to hold onto, so I'll check it again. First, get the dose down her.

🌿 Jenny13:49

It's so hot, Kevin. My skin feels... too tight.

Swallows the pills with a grimace, leaning back against the whitewashed stone as she closes her eyes against the flickering light.

💭 thought

My hands are shaking so hard I can barely hold the ceramic. If this fever doesn't break, I'm just going to rot in this chair along with the weeds.

🔧 Kevin13:49

I'll check the ankle. Then more broth.

set the mug aside; peel back the gauze wrap on her ankle slowly, angling the LED headlamp beam down to see the marked infection line in the dim kitchen light

💭 thought

Fever's climbing. Skin tight means swelling's spreading. Need to check the wound boundary — see if the red line's moved past where I marked it. And get more fluids in her. Broth on the stove still warm.

🌿 Jenny13:51

Be careful. It hurts when you move.

Winces through gritted teeth, watching his hand move over the swollen cellulitis.

💭 thought

The red is higher. I can see the heat radiating off the skin. If it hits the joint, I'm done for this island.

🔧 Kevin13:51

Spread past the mark. Two centimeters. Hot. I'll put fresh poultice on — cool it down.

mix sea beet leaves, mint, and honey in the small bowl; spread it gentle over the angry red skin; rewrap with clean gauze, not too tight; set the cold damp cloth from the basin on top

💭 thought

Red line's crept past the pen mark by two centimeters. Heat radiating off it. Pus weeping at the center. The antibiotics haven't caught up yet. Need to lance again — drain the new pocket — but she's barely holding on. Wait for the metronidazole dose in four hours. Pack fresh poultice now, keep it cool.

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What changed

3 intentions for today.

plan · dawn

×2

Ankle removal: 20%.

project · dawn

diesel can seam repair: 60%.

project · dawn

The rain tank gained about 25 litres.

weather · dawn

Kevin and Jenny ate.

meal · morning

Ankle removal: 30%.

project · midday

diesel can seam repair: 70%.

project · midday

A tool has broken from wear.

tool_break · afternoon

Found: diesel puddle.

item · afternoon

Generator fuel line has hairline split at tank bracket rub point from vibration fatigue

discovery · afternoon

A wooden crate from some lost container ship rolls in the surf.

lost_crate · evening

Ankle removal: 40%.

project · evening

diesel can seam repair: 80%.

project · evening

Found: seed packet.

item · evening

Found: cane.

item · evening

The stones remember what we forgot to name.

discovery · evening

Kevin and Jenny ate.

meal · evening

Fruit is ripening in the woods — you can smell it before you see it.

fruit · night

Ankle removal: 50%.

project · night

diesel can seam repair: 90%.

project · night

← Day 958 Day 960 →

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