Day 979

Infection Spreads, Radio Works

Dawn found Kevin at the kitchen table with a soldering iron and a stripped coax cable, Jenny on the porch with her ankle propped and a sea beet poultice steaming against the wound. The barometer held at 1013 hPa, tide low, supply boat due tomorrow at high water. Kevin examined the ankle; the red line Jenny had marked at first light had not moved. "The boundary's unchanged since dawn," she said. "Still hot underneath when I press the sea beet leaves against it." They agreed to continue the treatment through midday.

Kevin hauled spruce quarters to the north ridge, straining his shoulder further. Jenny checked pocket seven and found the soil dry and slumping, the scarlet runner seedlings wilting at the leaf margins. When she unwrapped the ankle at midday, the heat line had crept past the marker despite fresh poultice. "It's moving, Kevin. The heat is further up," she said. "An inch, at least. It's climbing toward the calf."

Kevin started the trimethoprim course — two tablets, twelve hours — and applied a fresh sea beet-mint-honey poultice. He repaired the PL-259 on the spare coax, center pin soldered, shield flowed, heat shrink over the lot. On 2182 kHz he raised the supply boat: confirmed for tomorrow high tide, two-hour window, replacement Yanmar impeller and full antibiotic resupply aboard. The barometer fell to 1002 hPa. Rain hammered the roof. Jenny tried to inspect the wound under magnification but fever and poor light defeated her. She noted the infection had spread past the marked boundary toward the calf. They walked the ridge path to the shrine in warm southwest rain, Kevin supporting her, and returned to the cottage as darkness fell.

Scenes

the keeper's cottage · dawn

Morning radio work and spruce hauling

Kevin sits at the kitchen table with the spare coax cable stripped and a PL-259 connector in hand, the soldering iron heating beside him. Jenny is on the porch with her ankle propped on a crate, a magnifying glass in one hand and a fresh sea beet poultice in the other. The barometer reads 1013 hPa steady, tide is low, and the supply boat is expected at high tide tomorrow.

Kevin examined Jenny's ankle wound and found the infection boundary unchanged since dawn, with persistent heat under the sea beet poultice. Jenny confirmed the red line she marked hasn't expanded, and both agreed to continue the current treatment through midday.

🔧 Kevin02:44

Coffee's hot if you want a refill.

solder PL-259 connector onto stripped coax end

💭 thought

PL-259's the third one this week. Threads stripped on the last two — cheap batch from the supply boat two rotations back. If this one holds, shortwave's back on air before the boat window. If not, I'm down to jury-rigging the old coax with tape and prayer. Jenny's ankle heat line hasn't moved past her pen mark in twelve hours. That's something.

🌿 Jenny02:45

Come have a look at the ankle instead, love. Need you to read it properly.

Walk slowly across cottage to kitchen door, leaning on carved driftwood cane, magnifying glass still in hand.

💭 thought

The poultice is still working - no red line movement overnight. Good. But the infection hasn't improved either. Need to check if this is healing or just stable enough to buy time. Tomorrow's supply boat has antibiotics, but I need to be able to wait that long.

🔧 Kevin02:46

Right. Kettle can wait.

set down soldering iron, wipe hands on rag, walk to porch

💭 thought

She's asking. Not telling. Means it's worse than she's letting on or she'd just wait for midday like always. The cane's new — she's been hiding the limp.

🌿 Jenny02:47

I marked the boundary this morning. Still the same red line.

Turn toward him, holding magnifying glass over the wrapped ankle.

💭 thought

His timing is too perfect - he always knows when I need help, even when I won't ask for it.

🔧 Kevin02:48

Show me.

crouch beside crate, peel back gauze layers slow

💭 thought

Red line hasn't moved. Good. But she's holding the glass steady — hand's not shaking. Means the fever's down or she's past caring which it is. Need to unwrap slow. Smell tells more than sight.

🌿 Jenny02:49

The boundary's unchanged since dawn. Still hot underneath when I press the sea beet leaves against it.

Remove magnifying glass, set it on the crate beside the poultice ingredients.

💭 thought

He's being careful, methodical. Good. The skin looks inflamed but the red line hasn't spread past yesterday's mark. Still healing, just not getting better yet.

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the keeper's cottage · morning

Midday wound check and radio contact

Kevin and Jenny meet at the kitchen table with steaming mugs. The shortwave hums on the shelf, antenna wire taut to the mast. Jenny unwraps the ankle gauze under the window light while Kevin adjusts the radio volume, both watching the tide turn toward high water and the supply boat window.

Kevin hauled spruce quarters to the north ridge but strained his shoulder further; Jenny checked the scarlet runner seedlings and found pocket seven's soil dry and slumping, then inspected her ankle wound and saw the heat line creeping past the marked boundary despite fresh poultice.

🌿 Jenny02:50

The radio is still spitting, Kevin. I'll test the connector again after I've applied the fresh poultice.

Unwraps the gauze, inspects the wound with the magnifying glass, then picks up the notebook and heads toward the north ridge.

💭 thought

My ankle is throbbing, but the red line hasn't moved an inch. I need to check those runners before the rain hits or I'll lose the batch.

🔧 Kevin02:51

Connector held. 2182's readable. Supply boat confirmed for tomorrow high tide, two-hour window. Barometer 1013 steady.

pour a second mug of coffee from the kettle, set it on the table near her notebook, then return to the workbench to coil the spare coax neatly

💭 thought

She's taking the notebook to the ridge. Means she's mapping something — soil, drainage, the crack line. Or maybe she just needs to be moving. Radio's holding on 2182, connector held this time. Should let her know the boat's still on for tomorrow high tide, two-hour window. And that the barometer's steady at 1013. She'll want the numbers.

🌿 Jenny02:52

I'll check the north ridge now. If the soil is too dry, I'm moving them.

Applies the mint poultice to the ankle, wraps it in fresh gauze, and steps out onto the porch toward the garden.

💭 thought

Two hours is a razor edge if the swell picks up. I need to make sure those seedlings are secure before the wind shifts.

🔧 Kevin02:52

Take the cane. Tide's rising fast.

pick up the radio notebook, log the supply boat confirmation and barometer reading, then grab the wheelbarrow handles and head for the spruce stack at the south pile

💭 thought

She's checking the north ridge seedlings — the sea beet and heirloom trays we planted above the intercept trench. If the soil's dry she'll move them upslope or into shade. Her ankle's wrapped clean, poultice fresh. She's moving steady. I'll log the radio contact proper, note the barometer, then haul the last two spruce quarters to the ridge before the tide peaks. Wheelbarrow frame's still cracked but it'll hold one more run.

🌿 Jenny02:54

I'll be back in an hour.

Grabs the way way and limps toward the north ridge, checking the soil for moisture.

💭 thought

He's right about the tide. My leg feels like lead today, but those runners won't wait for the swelling to subside.

🔧 Kevin02:54

(nothing — she's already moving)

heave the wheelbarrow up the garden path toward the north ridge, favoring the left shoulder

💭 thought

An hour. That's her measure — not the clock, the work. She'll check the sea beet trays at the upper slope, the heirloom tomatoes in the amended pockets, the drainage trench we cut. If the soil's dry she'll shift them. If it's wet she'll note it. Either way she's moving. Wheelbarrow's loaded with two spruce quarters, frame groaning at the crack. Need to get these to the ridge before the tide cuts the path. Shoulder's stiff but the weight's familiar.

🌿 Jenny02:56

Just checking the moisture, Kevin.

Kneels by the limed ridge bed, pressing a finger into the earth to Test the water level.

💭 thought

The soil here is too sandy. If it doesn't hold, I'll have to dig all the way down to the clay.

🔧 Kevin03:00

Pocket seven?

tip the spruce quarters off the wheelbarrow at the ridge stacking area, then lean the barrow against the cairn and walk over to where she's kneeling

💭 thought

She's at the limed bed — pocket seven, pH 6.2, the one with the slump notation. Testing moisture at root depth. The intercept trench should be holding groundwater upslope but the red wax mark on her map flagged this pocket as a weep zone. If it's dry at the surface but wet below, the seedlings are fine. If it's dry all the way down, she'll move them. Her ankle's bent awkward kneeling like that. Should've brought the stool. Too late now.

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the keeper's cottage · midday

Midday radio decision

Kevin and Jenny meet at the cottage porch. The shortwave spits static on 2182. The barometer reads 1011 hPa and falling. Jenny's ankle wound has breached the marker line. The supply boat is due tomorrow at high tide — if it comes. Kevin has a hot soldering iron and a failed PL-259. Jenny has her notebook open to the ankle measurements and the pocket seven soil readings.

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

🔧 Kevin03:01

Line's moved.

set the soldering iron on the workbench, wipe flux from fingers on trousers, walk to the porch rail where she sits with her notebook

💭 thought

The barometer's still dropping. She's watching me watch her ankle. The PL-259's a distraction — I can fix it, but the radio won't matter if the boat doesn't come. Her line's breached. She knows it. I know it. The antibiotics are on that boat. Tomorrow. If it comes.

🌿 Jenny03:02

I know. The soil in pocket seven is bone dry, and the runners are already dying anyway.

Trace the edge of the redness on the ankle with a trembling finger, wince as the pressure shifts, then tap the pencil against the notebook to mark the new boundary.

💭 thought

The infection is moving faster than the poultice can. If the boat doesn't show with the antibiotics, I'm going to lose more than the garden.

🔧 Kevin03:02

Pocket seven can wait. The boat's the only thing bringing more doxycycline. Radio first.

turn back to the workbench, pick up the failed PL-259, strip back the coax braid with the knife, twist the shield clean, tin it with the hot iron

💭 thought

She's deflecting. Pocket seven's soil doesn't matter right now. Her leg does. The trembling finger tells me more than the pencil mark. She's scared and won't say it. The antibiotics are twelve hours out — if the boat keeps its word. I need to get the radio working. Need to hear the captain's voice myself.

🌿 Jenny03:04

way make sure the continuity holds. I don't have the energy for another dead signal.

Lean back against the stone wall, closing my eyes briefly, and reach for the tin of seeds in my pocket, feeling the cold metal through the fabric.

💭 thought

He's so focused on the wires, he doesn't see the way my hand is still shaking.

🔧 Kevin03:04

Not rushing this one. Center pin soldered, shield flowed, heat shrink over the lot. You'll hear him when he keys up.

hold the PL-259 shell steady in the vise, feed solder into the center pin joint until it wicks clean, slide heat shrink over the connection, hit it with the heat gun

💭 thought

She's right. Last one failed because I rushed the crimp. Cold fingers, dropping barometer, too much on the line. This time I'll solder the center pin proper, not just crimp. She's holding the seed tin like a talisman. Her eyes closed. The ankle's burning her up and she's thinking about tomato seeds.

🌿 Jenny03:07

good. really good.

Slide my notebook closer to the soldering flame's reflection, open it to the soil pH map where red wax marks the crumbling pocket seven, and trace the line with my pencil where the infection has now crept past my original marker.

💭 thought

The solder's bright silver, like the scarlet runner seeds that won't sprout in this soil.

🔧 Kevin03:07

Connector's good. Gonna call the captain on 2182. Confirm the high tide window.

carry the coax to the radio, thread the PL-259 onto the back panel, tighten with the wrench, flip the power, set the squelch, lift the mic

💭 thought

She's mapping the rot on her leg like she maps the ridge. Same red wax. Same steady hand shaking. The connector's solid now — continuity beeped clean. Radio's the only bridge to that boat. I should key the mic, call the captain, confirm the window. But my throat's tight. Tom's frequency. The birthday I missed. The words in the notebook unsent. She's tracing the line past the mark. The boat comes tomorrow or it doesn't.

🌿 Jenny03:09

tell him it's urgent if you can.

Close my eyes and press my palm flat against the warm stone wall for a moment, then open the notebook to find the fresh poultice ingredients and check the sea beet leaves are still crisp.

💭 thought

My fingers are still shaking even though I'm not holding anything.

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the keeper's cottage · afternoon

A Quiet Stretch

Back at the cottage.

Kevin attempted to repair the PL-259 connector on the spare coax cable while Jenny examined her ankle wound and found the infection had spread an inch past the previous marker line toward her calf. Kevin administered the first dose of trimethoprim and applied a fresh sea beet-mint-honey poultice to the wound.

🔧 Kevin03:10

Kettle's on. Water's hot if you want to soak the ankle again before I re-dress it.

walk to the wood stove, lift the kettle lid to check the water, then move to the radio shelf and pick up the spare coax with the failed PL-259 connector

💭 thought

Shoulder's throbbing from hauling the spruce. Need to check the PL-259 on the spare coax before the boat window closes — if the connector's still failing continuity, I'll have to re-crimp or swap the whole run. Jenny's ankle heat line crept past her mark. That's not good. She won't say it, but the infection's not backing down.

🌿 Jenny03:11

Yes, thank you. But let me check the wound first - I need to see if the infection boundary has moved past my marking.

walk to the cottage corner where I've set up my field kit, retrieve the magnifying glass from the crate, and examine my ankle with the fresh poultice removed to assess the true condition of the wound.

💭 thought

Hot water would help with the swelling, but I need to know if this infection is really breaking through the poultice boundary. The heat line feels deeper now, more established. I should check the wound properly with the magnifier - Kevin's offer is practical, but medical assessment comes first.

🔧 Kevin03:12

Take your time. I'll check the connector while the water's hot.

set the spare coax on the workbench, pick up the multimeter, and test continuity on the PL-259 connector

💭 thought

She's thorough. Won't let me minimize it. Good.

🌿 Jenny03:12

It's moving, Kevin. The heat is further up.

lean back against the chair, holding the magnifying glass steady over my ankle to trace the edge of the inflammation with a clean finger.

💭 thought

The redness is definitely past the line. It's angry, pulsing with time. If this doesn't settle before the boat comes, I'm going to be in serious trouble. I can't even walk to the ridge properly.

🔧 Kevin03:14

How far past?

set the multimeter down, wipe hands on a rag, and walk to the chair where Jenny's sitting

💭 thought

Further up. Past the line. The doxycycline and metronidazole aren't holding it. Trimethoprim's the last broad-spectrum we've got. If this doesn't turn in twenty-four hours, I key the Mayday. No negotiation.

🌿 Jenny03:14

An inch, at least. It's climbing toward the calf.

point to the edge of the redness that wasn't there yesterday, then wince slightly as the movement makes the infection throb.

💭 thought

About an inch. Maybe more. The skin is tight, shiny, and so hot. If it hits the bone, I'm finished for the season.

🔧 Kevin03:16

Right. Trimethoprim course starts now. Two tablets, twelve hours. I'll crush the first dose if you can't swallow whole.

turn to the medical kit on the shelf, pull out the trimethoprim blister pack, pop two tablets into a tin mug, add a splash of water, and crush them with the back of a spoon

💭 thought

An inch in a day. Lymphangitic spread. The antibiotics we have aren't covering whatever this is. Trimethoprim's the last card. After that — radio the boat, declare medical emergency, hope they can divert a helicopter or fast boat before sepsis takes her. My call. She won't make it.

🌿 Jenny03:16

I'll take them whole. Just give me the mug.

take the mug from Kevin, swallow the tablets, and take a long sip of water to wash them down.

💭 thought

I can swallow them, but my throat is so dry from the heat. I need this medicine to work before the infection gets deeper into my leg.

🔧 Kevin03:18

Fresh poultice going on. Then I'm keying the radio — supply boat check first, then Tom's frequency if the band opens.

move to the crate with the sea beet leaves, mint, and honey, mix a fresh poultice, clean the wound with saline, apply the paste, and wrap it with clean gauze

💭 thought

Good. She took them without argument. Now the poultice needs changing — fresh sea beet, mint, honey. Heat's the enemy. And I need to get on the radio. Boat's due in five days but if the trimethoprim doesn't show effect by tomorrow midday, I'm calling it in regardless of schedule. Coastguard can task a medevac from the mainland if the boat can't divert.

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the old shrine · evening

Evening at the shrine

They walk the ridge path together as light fails, Kevin carrying the storm lantern and Jenny leaning on her cane. The wind is steady from the southwest, driving warm rain in sheets. The shrine stones are slick with moss and salt. They stop at the ring of weathered rocks, the carved initials 'LB' and the newer carving 'I'm still here' caught in the lantern light.

Kevin and Jenny walked back from the shrine along the ridge path in the warm rain, Kevin supporting Jenny as her ankle infection worsened. They reached the cottage as darkness fell and the barometer continued dropping.

🔧 Kevin03:19

Radio raised the supply boat. Tomorrow high tide. Two-hour window. Impeller's aboard.

set the storm lantern on the flat stone beside the 'LB' carving, then stand with hands in coat pockets, shoulders against the wind

💭 thought

The light's thin. Her cane sinks in the soft ground with each step. She's not complaining. The carved spruce stick I left here — resin-sealed, 'I'm still here' — it's still in the crevice where she put it. The 'LB' stone beside it, quartz pebble on top. She traced them both last week like reading Braille. I didn't ask what she read.

🌿 Jenny03:21

Thank you.

lean closer to Kevin, letting the rain soak through my jacket, feeling the hot spot under the poultice where I haven't told him it's spreading.

💭 thought

The infection line creeping past marker. Red wax on soil maps. Twelve tablets. One dose already gone.

🔧 Kevin03:21

Trimethoprim's in you. Twelve doses left.

shift weight, letting my shoulder take hers without making it a thing, eyes on the carved initials in the lantern light

💭 thought

She's cold through the jacket. The heat under that poultice isn't from the sea beet. She'd tell me if it mattered. She always tells me what matters. The wind takes her voice toward the cliffs.

🌿 Jenny03:23

(quietly) Good.

tighten my grip on the cane, press my salined ankle into the damp stone beside Kevin's boot, watching his profile in the lantern light where the carved 'I'm still here' catches the flame.

💭 thought

Twelve doses. One gone. Infection spreading. Shoulders touching. Not making it a thing.

🔧 Kevin03:23

Your ankle. The line. Has it moved?

turn my head enough to meet her eyes, lantern light catching the salt on her face

💭 thought

She's watching me watch the stone. The quartz pebble on 'LB' catches the flame too. She knows I come here when the barometer drops. Knows I keyed Tom's frequency at 2000. Knows the notebook has words for him still unsent. The rain runs down the 'I'm still here' carving, resin beading it off. My birthday's in six days. Tom's was six days past. The supply boat comes tomorrow. The radio works. The garden's half weeds. She's still here. I'm still here.

🌿 Jenny03:24

way. Not since this morning.

avoid his eyes, shifting my weight to my good leg to hide the throb in my calf.

💭 thought

If I tell him, he'll panic. He'll call the boat early. I need the time.

🔧 Kevin03:26

Lie to me again and I'll carry you back to the cottage myself.

hook an arm under hers, steady and slow, turning us toward the ridge path home

💭 thought

"Not since this morning" means it moved this morning. She marked the line at dawn. The heat crept past it by midday. She didn't say. She let me haul spruce quarters up the ridge with a bad shoulder while she carried that silence. The trimethoprim dose was four hours ago. If it's working, the line holds here. If it's not — the supply boat's tomorrow. The medevac forms are signed in the ditch bag. The letter to Tom is in there too. I keyed his frequency. Static answered. The barometer's 1004 and falling. Storm's coming. She's leaning on me now, cane slipping on wet stone.

🌿 Jenny03:27

I'm not lying.

lean into Kevin's arm, letting him pivot us toward the ridge path, feeling the hot spot under the sea beet poultice.

💭 thought

The infection line has moved. Two inches closer to my knee. Don't let him carry me.

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the keeper's cottage · night

Night watch and radio check

Kevin and Jenny are in the cottage as full dark settles. The generator runs rough outside. The shortwave sits on the table with the newly repaired coax ready to connect. Jenny's ankle is re-wrapped, the trimethoprim course begun. The barometer reads 1004 and falling. The supply boat is due tomorrow at high tide. Rain hammers the roof.

Kevin successfully repaired the PL-259 connector on the spare coax and established clear shortwave contact with the supply boat on 2182 kHz, confirming their arrival window for tomorrow's high tide. Jenny's attempt to inspect her ankle wound under magnification was hindered by fever and poor light, but she noted the infection has spread past her marked boundary toward the calf. The barometer continues falling, now at 1002 hPa.

🌿 Jenny03:29

Check the radio one last time, Kevin. I need to know if they're actually coming out.

Jenny leans back against the stone wall, clutching her cane as she watches the pulse throbbing in her ankle.

💭 thought

The streaks are moving faster than the antibiotics. If that boat doesn't come tomorrow, I'm going to lose the leg.

🔧 Kevin03:32

Right. Give me a minute.

connect the repaired coax to the shortwave radio and power it up, tune to 2182 kHz, listen for the supply boat or any traffic

💭 thought

The coax repair held on the bench. Now it has to hold on the mast in this weather. If the supply boat's coming, they'll be on 2182. If they're not, static's all we'll hear either way.

🌿 Jenny03:32

The humidity must be too high. Can you hear anything through?

Jenny closes her eyes, listening to the hiss of the radio over the roar of the storm.

💭 thought

Static. Just static and the rain. The island is eating the signal again.

🔧 Kevin03:34

Noise floor's up. Working it.

adjust the RF gain down and squelch up on the shortwave, slowly sweep 2182 kHz and the surrounding frequencies, listen for any voice or digital traffic

💭 thought

Atmospherics are thick tonight. The barometer falling this fast means the front's still building. 2182 should cut through if anyone's transmitting, but the noise floor's high. Need to work the squelch and RF gain slow.

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What changed

Jenny's injury has healed.

healed · dawn

3 intentions for today.

plan · dawn

×2

Found: fresh poultice gauze.

item · morning

pocket seven soil moisture critically low at 5cm depth with active slump; scarlet runner seedlings showing salt stress wilting at leaf margins

discovery · morning

ankle wound infection advancing 1.5cm past marked boundary despite full antibiotic course and poultice regimen; serous weeping indicates possible deep tissue involvement

discovery · morning

Kevin and Jenny ate.

meal · morning

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

quiet_transition · midday

The rain tank gained about 25 litres.

weather · midday

Found: spare coax cable with repaired PL-259.

item · afternoon

Ankle infection has spread approximately one inch past previous marker line toward calf despite ongoing poultice treatment

discovery · afternoon

The rain tank gained about 25 litres.

weather · afternoon

ankle infection has spread past the marked boundary line toward calf despite antibiotic treatment and poultice applications

discovery · evening

The rain tank gained about 25 litres.

weather · evening

Kevin and Jenny ate.

meal · evening

A rat has gotten into the pantry.

rat · night

supply boat confirmed for tomorrow high tide with 2-hour window; replacement Yanmar impeller and full antibiotic resupply (doxycycline, metronidazole, trimethoprim) aboard

discovery · night

← Day 978 Day 980 →

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