Day 977

The Line Parts

Dawn found them on the dock, tide at its lowest. Jenny sat on a crate wrapping her ankle; Kevin checked mooring lines gone slack with the ebb. The air hung thick, salt and rot. He went for the wheelbarrow, its joints seized by salt crust, while she clutched the heirloom seed tin on the porch, the wound on her ankle swollen and angry. Humidity threatened to rot the dry seeds before they could be moved.

By morning the tide was turning. Kevin carried the tin toward the north ridge garden, Jenny limping beside him. A fallen spruce trunk blocked the path, branches tangled in shade-cloth anchor lines. He set the tin down and attacked the trunk with chainsaw and come-along. She continued to the lighthouse ruins for soil samples, moving slow over slick ground.

Midday brought thickening clouds. Kevin split spruce rounds in the garden, brush clearing grueling in the slick. Jenny logged pH data at the ruins — pocket seven at 6.2, active slump notation cross-referenced with Carex transect GPS — then rested her ankle.

Rain drove them inside. Nothing was recorded of the afternoon or early evening.

At night Kevin examined the ankle. It was hot and inflamed past the marked infection line. The antibiotics weren't holding. Jenny admitted she had delayed telling him, afraid he'd think less of her. The chainsaw sat at the garden path with a parted line; the splice had held, but the cleat or timber had failed. The seed tin rested on the windowsill for morning light.

Scenes

the dock · dawn

The Low Tide Window

Kevin and Jenny stand on the damp dock as the tide recedes to its lowest point. Jenny sits on a weathered crate, wrapping her ankle while Kevin checks the tensioned mooring lines. The air is heavy and still, smelling of salt and rotting wood.

Kevin heads to the dock to address the seized wheelbarrow, struggling against the salt-crusted metal joints. Jenny stays on the porch, clutching the heirloom seed trays while tending to the swollen, angry wound on her ankle. The humid air hangs heavy, threatening to rot the dry seeds if they aren't moved quickly.

🌿 Jenny00:07

The pH is too low near the water. I need more lime from the ruins.

Tightens the bandage on her ankle, wincing as the fabric catches the swollen skin.

💭 thought

If I don't get those seeds to the north slope soon, the humidity will rot them right out of the tin.

🔧 Kevin00:08

I'll take the wheelbarrow at first light. Two sacks. Back before the tide turns.

check the mooring line tension on the north piling, then walk back toward the cottage with the come-along over my shoulder

💭 thought

She's still planning the garden while her ankle tracks hot toward her knee. The lime run means the lighthouse ruins — loose shale, tide-cut ledges, a fall she's already taken once. I'll go. She knows I will. She just needs to say it.

🌿 Jenny00:08

Make sure the wheelbarrow wheel is greased; the salt is seizing everything up.

Picks up the seed tin from the table, rubbing the cold metal with her thumb.

💭 thought

He thinks two sacks will fix the acidity, but the soil here is hungry for more than that.

🔧 Kevin00:10

Wheel's been screaming for grease since March. I'll hit it with the graphite powder from the crate stores.

pause at the workshop door, pull the graphite tube from the shelf, and tuck it into my pocket

💭 thought

She's memorizing the weight of that tin. Every seed packet inside is a bet on next season. She'll still be here to plant them.

🌿 Jenny00:12

Don't forget to check the debridement on my ankle while you're out there.

Opens the seed tin, looking at the dried husks of grandmother's garden.

💭 thought

Graphite is better than oil here, but it won't stop the rot in the wood.

🔧 Kevin00:13

I'll check it when I get back. You keep it elevated and dry.

set the graphite tube on the workbench, then turn and walk to the porch where she's sitting with the tin

💭 thought

She's asking me to look at something she can't bear to show me straight. The black line past her knee. The heat I felt through the gauze last night. She wants me to see it in daylight so she doesn't have to tell me it's worse.

🌿 Jenny00:14

The soil on the north slope is the only chance we have. I need to move them before the rain.

Traces the edge of the seed tin with a shaky finger, avoiding his eyes.

💭 thought

He thinks a bandage solves a deep problem, but the infection is moving up my leg.

🔧 Kevin00:14

The north slope holds. I saw the trench draining. You move the trays when the fever breaks. Not before.

crouch beside her chair, reach for her ankle, and peel back the gauze edge with two fingers

💭 thought

Her finger trembles on the tin. Not from cold. The infection's riding her blood and she's talking soil pH. I've seen men work through sepsis on a rolling deck — they don't last long once the shakes start.

🌿 Jenny00:16

It's not the fever, it's the humidity. The seeds will rot if I wait.

Winces as the gauze sticks to the swollen skin, clutching the seed tin to her chest.

💭 thought

He's so certain of the soil while I can feel the heat radiating off my skin.

🔧 Kevin00:16

Look at it. *Look.*

hold the gauze peeled back, not touching the wound, waiting for her to drop the tin and meet my eyes

💭 thought

Red-black streaks feathering up the calf past the knee joint. Hot as a manifold. The smell — sweet rot under honey and antiseptic. She's fighting the island for those seeds because she thinks the island won't keep her. I need her to see what I see.

Open this scene on its own page →

the keeper's cottage · morning

DAY 977, MORNING

The humidity remains stifling as the tide begins to turn. You meet at the cottage to discuss the next move for the garden.

Kevin carried the heirloom seed tin to the north ridge garden while Jenny limped alongside on her swollen ankle. The garden path was blocked by a fallen spruce trunk, so Kevin set the tin down and began clearing it with the chainsaw and come-along. Jenny continued on to the old lighthouse ruins to collect soil samples for pH testing, moving slowly over slick ground.

🌿 Jenny00:20

The pH here is too acidic for the heirloom. We need to move the tin to the three slope before the rain comes.

lift the heavy seed tin from the table, wincing as the weight shifts on my ankle.

💭 thought

My own is throbbing and if I don't get these seeds to the north slope soon, the salt air will rot them right here.

🔧 Kevin00:20

I'll carry it. You walk slow.

step forward and take the seed tin from her hands, holding it level against my chest

💭 thought

She's moving too fast on a bad ankle, carrying weight she shouldn't. The tin's heavy and the slope's slick. I'll take it — but I need her to say the words first, that she's staying too.

🌿 Jenny00:22

way don't drop them. The north slope is the only place with a real chance.

lean heavily against the doorframe, watching the weight of the tin as I start to limp toward the path.

💭 thought

He thinks he's being helpful, but I'm the one who knows exactly where the soil won't sour.

🔧 Kevin00:22

I'm not dropping them. You're not climbing that slope alone either.

adjust the tin's weight, turn toward the garden path, and wait for her to move first

💭 thought

She's white-knuckling the doorframe. Ankle's worse than she'll admit. The north slope's a climb even on two good legs. I'm not letting her do it alone.

🌿 Jenny00:24

Just watch where you step. The mud near the ruins is slick from the humidity.

take a slow step off the porch, testing the pressure on my swollen ankle.

💭 thought

He's always so sure of the weight, but he doesn't Feel the heat in this joint.

🔧 Kevin00:24

I know the mud. You go ahead — I'm right behind you.

fall in a pace behind her on the path, the tin cradled secure, eyes on her footing

💭 thought

She's guiding me like I don't know this ground. But she's the one favoring the bad leg, breathing hard through her teeth. The humidity's thick enough to drink. North slope's a half-mile of wet clay and loose rock. We'll take it slow.

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the garden · midday

Midday work on the ridge and in the garden

Kevin is in the garden splitting spruce rounds for firewood while Jenny works at the old lighthouse ruins logging soil data and testing pH.

The humidity is heavy over the garden as the clouds thicken, signaling the coming rain. Kevin attempts to clear the remaining stubborn brush, but the slick conditions make the work grueling and slow while Jenny stays at the lighthouse, resting her ankle.

🔧 Kevin00:27

Kevin — swing the maul at the second spruce round, splitting it for firewood

💭 thought

Good wood. Straight grain. The maul feels right in my hands — haven't swung one for pay in years, but the body remembers. Twelve armfuls of kindling already stacked, three rounds down, three to go. Shade cloth'll need re-anchoring once the path's clear. Jenny's at the lighthouse ruins with the pH kit; tide's high so she's got time before the spring low. Barometer holding. This is work that finishes.

🌿 Jenny00:28

Jenny — wipe sweat from my brow with the back of a muddy hand and secure the soil auger into its waterproof casing.

💭 thought

If the pH drops any further, the sea beets won't stand a chance. I need more lime for the north slope.

🔧 Kevin00:30

Kevin — wipe sweat from eyes, pick up the come-along and walk down to the dock to rig it on the wedged crate at low water

💭 thought

Three rounds split, stacked neat along the garden wall. Kindling under the eaves, heavier rounds by the wood stove. Shade cloth anchors all cut free — need new line and stakes before next blow. Back's warm, hands steady. Jenny's been gone a while; lighthouse ruins are a slow pick over slick rock. Tide's turning. Should check the come-along setup on the far mooring crate while the water drops.

🌿 Jenny00:32

Not today, rain. Not today.

stand up slowly, shifting my weight to my good leg and hiss through my teeth as the ankle throbs.

💭 thought

The sky is getting too dark. If it rains before I get the tin to the cottage, the seeds are ruined.

Open this scene on its own page →

the keeper's cottage · afternoon

The Rain Breaks Through

The first heavy drops drum against the roof as you and Jenny meet inside the kitchen to escape the sudden heat and the coming downpour.

No narrator was available, so nothing about this stretch was recorded.

🔧 Kevin00:34

Kettle's warm. Coffee or broth?

set a tin mug on the table and pull out the second chair

💭 thought

The rain's here earlier than the barometer hinted. Good — tank tops off, and the garden gets a proper soak without me hauling buckets. Jenny's ankle looks worse in this light; the swelling's tracking up past the boot line. She shouldn't have done the lighthouse climb.

🌿 Jenny00:34

Coffee. Please.

Sit down heavily in the chair, propping my ankle up on a stool to dull the throbbing.

💭 thought

way own is a hot piece of lead, and I can't even look at him without feeling guilty.

🔧 Kevin00:36

Kevin — pour coffee into the mug, slide it across the table, then sit opposite with my own

💭 thought

She's favouring it hard. The climb did more damage than she'll admit. Best keep it simple — hot liquid, off the foot, quiet.

🌿 Jenny00:36

It's really coming down now.

Wrap both hands around the warm mug, letting the steam fog up my glasses.

💭 thought

it's so quiet today, like the rain is the only thing filling the space between us.

🔧 Kevin00:38

Tank'll be full by dark. Good for the beds.

blow across my coffee, watch the steam rise

💭 thought

Rain on the roof covers the silence. She's waiting for me to say the thing I said I'd say at breakfast. The mug warms my palms.

🌿 Jenny00:58

I'll check the pH when I get to the ruins.

Drain the coffee faster than I should, then reach for the notebook on the table.

💭 thought

he still doesn't ask about the infection or how I've been surviving on half-doses and denial.

🔧 Kevin00:58

Ankle says no. Samples keep.

tap the side of my mug, not looking at her

💭 thought

She's deflecting. The ruins are a kilometre of slick rock on an ankle that needs days off, not hours. The notebook's her shield.

🌿 Jenny01:00

The samples are from yesterday. I need fresh ones at the lighthouse.

Flip open the notebook to my soil pH log, fingers tracing the red wax marks.

💭 thought

he's talking to the mug, not to me, like I'm just another thing that needs attention.

🔧 Kevin01:00

Take the cane. Take the radio. And if the tide cuts the ridge path, you turn back. No argument.

stand, pull the walking cane from the corner by the door, set it on the table between us

💭 thought

She's set on it. The red wax marks mean something to her — pocket seven, the slump zone, the pH drift. She'd crawl there on her elbows before she'd admit she can't walk. I've seen her do worse.

🌿 Jenny01:02

The north slope soil pocket seven—it's pH 6.2, shows slump notation. I need to verify before committing grandmother's seeds.

Reach for the cane, then pull back, fingers closing around the heirloom seed tin instead.

💭 thought

he's already decided what's best without asking what I need.

🔧 Kevin01:02

Tin stays dry. You go, tin stays here.

reach across the table, cover the tin with my hand

💭 thought

The tin in her hands says more than the notebook. She's not going for soil. She's going to plant. Pocket seven's the only viable ground left on the ridge and she knows it. The ankle's secondary — the seeds are primary. Always were.

🌿 Jenny01:07

No, keep it. I need to move it to the north ridge soil amendment.

Pull my hand away slowly, then reach for the radio on the shelf.

💭 thought

he thinks protecting it means keeping it away from danger, but he doesn't understand I'm the danger—or the only thing that can save it.

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the keeper's cottage · evening

A Quiet Stretch

Back at the cottage.

No narrator was available, so nothing about this stretch was recorded.

🌿 Jenny01:10

Kevin, the barometer dropped to 1023 and falling. We need to move the seeds to the north ridge soil pocket seven before the storm hits - the amended soil there held grandmother's potatoes through last year's late season. Can you help me secure the garden tarp while I work on the soil pH verification?

apply antibiotic cream to ankle, then rewrap with sterile gauze check supply boat manifest for ETA confirmation prepare seed transfer kit: heirloom packets, soil pH strips, small trowel set rat trap with fresh corned beef bait near pantry e

💭 thought

The barometer's falling fast - that's four points in one day. Storm's coming, and if I don't get those seeds planted in stable soil before it hits, everything I've been saving for eleven months will be destroyed. The infection on my ankle is hotter than it was this morning, and I can't afford to lose function in my right hand - need it for the radio when the boat comes.

🔧 Kevin01:10

Tarp first. Then seeds. Rat trap while you're at the lighthouse. Supply boat manifest says tomorrow high tide — two hour window. We'll know more when she rounds the headland.

secure garden tarp corners and re-stake any lifted, then set rat trap with fresh corned beef bait near pantry

💭 thought

The barometer falling this fast with that humidity means we've got hours, maybe half a day before the front hits. Pocket seven held last year — but it's also the slump zone Jenny marked in red wax. Moving seeds there is betting on the drainage trench holding. I'll secure the tarp first, then help with the transfer. The rat trap needs setting regardless — we can't afford losses in the pantry with the supply boat due.

🌿 Jenny01:14

Good. I'll check the lighthouse ruins soil pocket seven while you secure the tarp - pH 6.2 held the sea beet seedlings last week, should work for the heirlooms if I amend with lime. I need to verify the slump notation before committing anything permanent.

set additional rat trap with mackerel bait near east pantry shelf where fresh gnaw marks appeared check water tank level - 397 litres means I'm using 3 litres per day for ankle treatments and seed soaking prepare soil sampling kit: trowel,

💭 thought

Tomorrow's high tide window - that's my only chance to get the seeds into soil pocket seven before the storm front moves in. Four days isn't much time to prepare, and my ankle's already giving me trouble from today's collecting. The rat's been eating through my seed packets - I can see the damage on the compromised basil and tomato packets I bagged for burning. But first, the tarp needs securing, then the seeds need to move to stable ground.

🔧 Kevin01:14

Watch the path past the spring. North ridge gets slick first. Radio's on 2182 if the boat calls early.

secure garden tarp corners and re-stake any lifted, reinforce shade cloth anchor points, set rat trap with fresh corned beef bait near pantry

💭 thought

She's moving fast for someone with a swollen ankle. The slump notation on pocket seven means the soil's moving — drainage trench bought time but a storm this size could overwhelm it. I'll batten the tarp proper and check the shade cloth anchors while I'm at it; the coconut crab shredded them last week. Water tank's fine at 397, but if the roof leak worsens we'll need the overflow repair.

🌿 Jenny01:16

Understood about the path. I'll test the soil pH at lighthouse ruins pocket seven first thing tomorrow morning - need to verify the slump notation matches what I logged in my clean soil notes page. If the pH's stable at 6.2 there, I can amend with lime and plant the heirloom seeds within the two-hour window.

check generator fuel line for weeping diesel at tank bracket rub point verify supply boat manifest notes for backup arrival windows prepare soil pH verification kit: water test strips, small trowel, measuring stick secure seed packets in oi

💭 thought

The path past the spring - that's where I slipped two days ago when the morning dew settled on the moss. North ridge gets slick first because of the north-facing slope catches the overnight moisture. Kevin's right about the radio - if they call early on 2182 kHz, I need to be ready to respond. But I also need to think about the soil pocket seven verification tomorrow morning before the tide window opens.

🔧 Kevin01:16

Generator fuel line's on the list. I'll check the clamp and the dinghy lines before light fails. Pocket seven — if the slump's worsened, we stage seeds in the cottage. No heroics.

check generator fuel line clamp at tank bracket, verify dinghy stern spring and bow line slack, finish securing garden tarp and shade cloth anchors

💭 thought

She's got a plan and she's sticking to it — good. The generator fuel line's still weeping at the bracket rub; I patched it with epoxy but the vibration works it loose. Need to check the clamp before the storm. Supply boat's confirmed for tomorrow high tide but weather like this could push her off station. I'll verify the fuel line, then finish the tarp and shade cloth. The oarlock bracket on the dinghy held at load but I should double the stern spring before dark.

🌿 Jenny01:18

Check the clamp housing bolt threads too - stripped threads mean weep point moves. If pocket seven's slump has deepened past 5cm, we keep seeds dry here until we can amend soil with lime and charcoal. Morning light's our only window to work before the tide window closes.

inspect generator housing bolt threads with magnifying glass verify antibiotic course availability - 13 doxycycline tablets remaining check water test strips - 2 strips left in new kit prepare backup seed storage location: oilskin pouch wit

💭 thought

Generator fuel line clamp - that's a hairline split weeping diesel. If it fails completely during the storm, I lose power for the radio when the supply boat calls. Cottage staging for seeds if pocket seven's unstable - practical plan. But I need to know exactly what "worsened" means before we lose those heirloom packets to humidity.

🔧 Kevin01:19

Copper shim's in the workshop drawer if the bolt's stretched. I'll check it now. Two strips — one for pocket seven, one for the tank if the roof leaks. Seeds go in the oilskin on the stove shelf if the slump's deep.

inspect generator fuel filter clamp housing bolt threads, check and reinforce dinghy mooring lines, finish securing garden tarp and shade cloth anchors

💭 thought

She's thinking three steps ahead — stripped threads on the housing bolt would mean the clamp won't hold torque, and the weep finds a new path. I've got copper shims cut for the Yanmar housing; one might work here as a spacer if the bolt's stretched. Two water test strips left means one for pocket seven, one spare. Oilskin pouch on the stove shelf is the right call for backup storage — warm, dry, sealed. I'll check the generator bolt, then the dinghy, then the tarp. Radio stays on 2182.

🌿 Jenny01:20

I'll take the copper shim and check the housing bolt threads myself - need to verify if it's stripped or just corroded. If the slump's deepened, I'll stage the seeds in the oilskin on the stove shelf but mark their location in my clean soil notes page so we don't forget them when the storm hits.

retrieve copper shim from workshop drawer inspect housing bolt threads with magnifying glass and feeler gauge check generator fuel line clamp housing bolt threads verify antenna ground stake repair status check water tank overflow channel s

💭 thought

Copper shim in workshop drawer - good, we have material for a proper repair if needed. Two water strips allocated - one for verification, one backup. Oilskin on stove shelf keeps seeds warm and dry, but I need to move them to stable soil before the storm hits. The generator's running smooth now with the new diaphragm, but that fuel line weep could become a fire hazard in high humidity.

🔧 Kevin01:20

Ground stake's two sections driven. Overflow's epoxy and wedges — holding so far. Northeast foundation still weeps. I'll handle the dinghy and tarp. Radio's hot.

check and reinforce dinghy mooring lines (stern spring and bow line), finish securing garden tarp corners and shade cloth anchors, set rat trap with fresh corned beef bait near pantry

💭 thought

She's thorough — checking the ground stake and overflow channel while she's at it. The antenna ground stake held through the last blow but the copper rod's only driven two sections deep; a proper storm could work it loose. Overflow channel's epoxy and oak wedges should hold but the foundation leak at the northeast corner's been weeping since the last swell. I'll let her take the shim and the magnifying glass; I've got the dinghy lines and the tarp. The generator clamp bolt — if the threads are stripped, I'll drill and tap oversize tomorrow before the boat comes. For now, a copper shim and proper torque should seal the weep.

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the keeper's cottage · night

A Quiet Stretch

Back at the cottage.

Kevin examined Jenny's ankle and found it hot and inflamed past the marked infection line, confirming the wound is worsening despite antibiotics. Jenny admitted she delayed telling him out of fear he'd think less of her. The chainsaw remains at the garden path with a parted line, and the heirloom seed tin was moved to the windowsill for morning light.

🔧 Kevin01:24

Kevin — walk to the kitchen, set the lantern on the table, pull out a chair and sit facing the porch door

💭 thought

The cottage feels different at night — quieter, heavier. The radio's static is the only sound besides my own breathing. Jenny's seed tin on the table catches the lantern light. I told myself this morning I'd speak plain at breakfast. Didn't happen. Now the day's gone and the words are still in my chest.

🌿 Jenny01:24

You left the chainsaw running out there." "How's the ankle looking?

Remove the heirloom seed tin from the table and place it carefully on the windowsill where morning light can reach it. Stand and lean against the doorframe, shifting weight to take pressure off the swollen left foot.

💭 thought

The humidity's still pressing against my skin even inside. I can feel the infection acting up again, that familiar heat pulsing under the bandages. Should've been more careful today. But there's salt in the wound - literally. I need to keep this clean until the boat comes. The tin feels heavier than it should, like it carries more than just seeds. Grandmother's expectations, maybe. Or my own fear of failure.

🔧 Kevin01:26

Chainsaw's at the garden path. Left it running when the line parted. Ankle first — let me look.

stand, cross to the porch door, hold it open for her to come in

💭 thought

She noticed. Good. Means she's watching. The chainsaw's still at the garden path — I walked off and left it idling when the come-along line snapped. Ankle first. Chainsaw second. My order's wrong.

🌿 Jenny01:26

I was going to move the tin to the north slope tomorrow at first light. The soil's ready." (voice quieter) "It's not infected. Not yet.

Step carefully onto the porch, favoring the right leg. Close the door behind me and lean against the jamb, letting Kevin's examination proceed.

💭 thought

He looks at my ankle the way he looks at engine problems - methodically, without flinching. Still doesn't ask about the infection. Doesn't ask about what I've been meaning to tell him. The chainsaw's still running somewhere out there, eating battery life I can't afford to lose.

🔧 Kevin01:28

Sit. Let me see proper.

pull the wooden stool from the kitchen corner, set it by the porch light, gesture for her to put her foot on my knee

💭 thought

Not infected yet. That "yet" carries weight. She knows as well as I do how fast things turn here. North slope soil's ready — she's been mapping it in that notebook for weeks. The tin on the windowsill catches the lantern glow. Heirloom seeds. Her grandmother's. My silence.

🌿 Jenny01:28

It's fine. Just swollen. I've got the antibiotic course started. (pause, looking at the chainsaw) "Did you secure it properly? The line parted because the splice held."

Lower myself carefully onto the stool, placing my left foot on Kevin's knee as he kneels to examine. Keep my hands folded in my lap, resisting the urge to offer my boot for closer inspection.

💭 thought

His hands are steady. Better than mine have been lately. I can feel the heat radiating from the ankle even through the bandages. The infection's definitely spreading - that purple hue is creeping higher. He's being gentle about it, but I can tell he's frustrated. Frustrated with the island, with the delay, with me.

🔧 Kevin01:30

Splice held. Cleat or timber. I'll check. Ankle's hot past the line.

peel back the gauze carefully, probe the joint with thumb and forefinger, watch her face for the flinch

💭 thought

She's deflecting. Chainsaw. Splice. Anything but the ankle. The splice held — means the cleat failed or the timber gave. I'll check at first light. Right now: her foot on my knee, skin hot through the gauze, the pen line I drew yesterday still visible at the infection boundary. Red hasn't crossed it. Good. But the heat in the joint... that's deep. Bone-deep maybe. She started the antibiotics. Doxycycline and metronidazole from the cache. Fourteen days each. She's taken two doses. Twelve left.

🌿 Jenny01:31

I felt the heat too. I brought the doxycycline." (whispered) "Kevin, I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner. I was afraid you'd think—

Shift uncomfortably on the stool, wincing as Kevin's fingers press against the inflamed tissue. Reach for the seed tin on the windowsill without looking directly at it.

💭 thought

He's right. The skin's broken between the bandages - I can see it now, red and inflamed. Should have caught this yesterday when it first started oozing. Now it's spreading wider. The chainsaw's still running somewhere out there. Batteries are finite.

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What changed

Jenny's injury has healed.

healed · dawn

3 intentions for today.

plan · dawn

×2

lighthouse ruins soil pocket seven at pH 6.2 shows active slump notation; GPS coordinates cross-referenced with Carex transect data

discovery · morning

fallen spruce trunk branches are tangled in shade cloth anchor lines on garden path; clearing required before shade cloth can be re-tensioned

discovery · morning

Kevin and Jenny ate.

meal · morning

The rain tank gained about 25 litres.

weather · midday

No model answered — the scene closed quietly on its own.

quiet_transition · afternoon

×2

Kevin and Jenny ate.

meal · evening

A light is seen at the old lighthouse, after dark — there is an ordinary explanation, found slowly, not yet this scene.

lighthouse_light · night

Jenny's ankle infection has progressed past the marked boundary despite antibiotic treatment

discovery · night

← Day 976 Day 978 →

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