Day 982

Infection and the Supply Boat

Grey light filled the kitchen as Kevin heated water in the kettle and laid out the scalpel, saline bottle, and fresh gauze. Jenny sat on the bench with her ankle propped on the driftwood splint, the old poultice steaming under the gauze wrap. The barometer read 991 hPa steady, tide falling. "Kettle's near boil. Water'll be sterile in two minutes. This is going to hurt," Kevin said. "Just get it over with, Kevin," Jenny replied. He debrided the infected wound with the scalpel, flushed it with hot saline, applied a fresh sea beet-mint-honey poultice, and rewrapped it. Both took doxycycline and metronidazole with warm water.

Mid-morning, Kevin cleared the fallen spruce blocking the garden path and prepared the dinghy for a mainland crossing at high tide tomorrow. Jenny debrided her ankle again with saline and boiled rainwater, applied a fresh sea beet-mint poultice, checked the water tank level. Fever held at 38.8°C. Kevin's shoulder and shin ached.

At midday they ate limpet broth and corned beef at the kitchen table, shortwave radio crackling on 2182 kHz. Barometer 990 hPa steady. Kevin heard only static and a fragmented bulletin about Ukraine's power grid. Jenny tracked the infection's spread past her marked boundary.

Afternoon brought no record. Evening: Kevin debrided the ankle again, flushed with saline, applied fresh poultice. The shortwave whip aerial was confirmed destroyed in a gust; only a longwire option remained if wind permitted. Jenny clutched the heirloom seed tin, insisting on north ridge soil assessment regardless of the supply boat.

Night. Rain hammered the tarp. Kevin fed spruce kindling into the stove, Yanmar injector pump parts laid out for morning reassembly. Jenny lay on the porch bench under a wool blanket, ankle elevated on a sandbag, breathing shallow and fast. Barometer held at 990 hPa. Supply boat due at high tide tomorrow, confirmed with two-hour window, replacement impeller and full antibiotic resupply aboard. Neither slept.

"The border's holding, but I need you to understand something," Jenny said. "Tomorrow at high tide, if the boat's there, you'll meet it at the dock. But if something happens to me — if the infection spreads or the barometer drops below 990 — you need to go to pocket seven on the north ridge. The soil there's pH 6.2, marked on the map with red wax. Plant the seeds from my tin there. Moon & stars, black coco

Scenes

the keeper's cottage · dawn

Morning Debridement

Grey light fills the kitchen as Kevin heats water in the kettle and lays out the scalpel, saline bottle, and fresh gauze on the table. Jenny sits on the bench with her ankle propped on the driftwood splint, the old poultice steaming under the gauze wrap. The barometer on the wall reads 991 hPa steady, and the tide is falling outside.

Kevin debrided Jenny's infected ankle wound with a scalpel and flushed it with hot saline, then applied a fresh sea beet-mint-honey poultice and re-wrapped it. Both took their antibiotic doses — doxycycline and metronidazole — with warm water. The barometer holds at 991 hPa and the tide is falling.

🔧 Kevin05:55

Kettle's near boil. Water'll be sterile in two minutes. This is going to hurt.

unwrap the old poultice dressing from Jenny's ankle, setting the soiled gauze aside for burning

💭 thought

Barometer holding at 991. Wind's dropped to Force 4 from the west. Crossing window is open if I move now. Jenny's fever hasn't broken — skin still radiating heat through the blanket. The red line on her calf hasn't advanced since 0400, but it hasn't receded either. Trimethoprim alone isn't enough. Need the metronidazole+doxycycline combo working systemically before I put her in a dinghy for six hours. First: debride, flush, fresh poultice. Then decide.

🌿 Jenny05:56

Just get it over with, Kevin.

Watch the pulse in the red heat of the ankle, jaw clenched tight as he reaches for the scalpel.

💭 thought

If I can't get to the ridge today, the morphology will just be a memory while the infection takes me.

🔧 Kevin05:56

Hold the splint steady. Don't kick me.

debride the wound with the scalpel — quick, precise cuts removing necrotic tissue, then flush hard with the hot saline bottle, catching runoff in the basin

💭 thought

Her pulse is visible at the ankle — 110, maybe 115. Tachycardic. She's been fighting this all night. Scalpel's sterile from the alcohol flame. Saline's hot enough to sting but not scald. Need to move fast and clean.

🌿 Jenny05:58

I'm holding. Just... god.

Grip the edge of the wooden table until knuckles white, breathing through gritted teeth to keep the scream in.

💭 thought

The pain is a white-hot spike through the fog, sharper than the fever.

🔧 Kevin05:58

Done. Wound's clean. Poultice going on now.

apply a thick layer of fresh sea beet-mint-honey poultice over the debrided wound, then wrap with clean gauze — firm, even tension, securing the end with tape

💭 thought

Clean granulation tissue showing now. No pus pockets left. The flush took the slough. Good. Wound bed looks angry but viable. Pulse still hammering but she didn't pass out. That's something. Fresh poultice next — sea beet, mint, honey. Thick layer. Then gauze wrap firm but not tourniquet-tight. Antibiotics after: doxycycline and metronidazole both, full doses. She needs the double coverage systemic before we even think about the crossing.

🌿 Jenny06:00

Thank you.

Lean head back against the whitewashed stone wall, closing eyes as the exhaustion begins to crash back in.

💭 thought

The heat is receding, but the throb is still there under the gauze.

🔧 Kevin06:00

Swallow these. Both. Whole mug.

press two tablets — doxycycline and metronidazole — into her palm and hold the tin mug of warm water to her lips

💭 thought

She's fading. Fever's still there but the worst of the pain shock has passed. Need the antibiotics in her now — doxycycline 100mg, metronidazole 400mg — with water. Then she sleeps. I watch the barometer, the dinghy warps, her breathing. Crossing decision at 0700. If wind holds Force 4 or drops, we go. If it backs northeast and picks up past Force 5, I lance and drain here and pray the split-dose regimen holds. Either way, she doesn't row. I do.

🌿 Jenny06:02

I've got them.

Take the pills and follow with a long drink, the mug warm against my face.

💭 thought

My throat is so dry I can barely swallow the bitterness.

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the keeper's cottage · morning

Mid-morning check and supply boat watch

Kevin and Jenny sit on the porch with tin mugs of weak coffee. The fallen spruce blocks the garden path. The barometer reads 991 hPa steady. The supply boat is due tomorrow at high tide. Jenny's ankle is wrapped and elevated; her fever holds at 38.8°C. Kevin's shoulder and shin ache. They watch the horizon and the tide turn.

Kevin cleared the fallen spruce blocking the garden path and prepared the dinghy for a mainland crossing at high tide tomorrow. Jenny debrided her ankle wound with saline and boiled rainwater, applied a fresh sea beet-mint poultice, and checked the water tank level.

🌿 Jenny06:03

The tide is going out fast today.

Jenny leans her head back against the stone, closing her eyes as the heat in her ankle pulses.

💭 thought

If the boat doesn't come tomorrow, I'm going to run out of antibiotics before the infection clears.

🔧 Kevin06:04

Wind's still west-northwest. If it holds, we'll have a window at high tide tomorrow. Two hours, the captain said.

sip coffee, eyes on the horizon where the supply boat should appear

💭 thought

She's watching the water like she's reading a gauge. Knows what I know — if the wind doesn't drop by 0530, the crossing's off. And if the crossing's off, I'm cutting into that ankle with a scalpel and rum for anaesthetic. She won't let me. I'll make her.

🌿 Jenny06:04

I hope they have the Yanmar way.

Jenny shifts her weight, wincing silently as the blanket brushes the inflamed skin.

💭 thought

Two hours is barely enough to unload the engine parts, let alone the heavy supplies.

🔧 Kevin06:06

Captain said it's aboard. Replacement impeller, full antibiotic resupply. Doxycycline, metronidazole, trimethoprim.

set mug down, reach for the radio notebook on the shelf, flip to the last entry

💭 thought

The impeller's the only thing keeping the Yanmar from eating itself. Captain confirmed it aboard. But he also confirmed the boat yesterday and the sea decided otherwise. Trust the radio, not the manifest.

🌿 Jenny06:06

We need them to be right.

Jenny looks at the notebook, her fingers tracing the sketch of the sea beet morphology.

💭 thought

If the meds are there, I might actually be able to finish the ridge survey.

🔧 Kevin06:16

They'll be right. Or we'll manage without.

tap the notebook — the captain's ETA entry, the barometer reading 994 hPa steady, the confirmed manifest

💭 thought

She's memorizing the supply list like a prayer. The sketches, the pH logs, the fracture maps — she's building a record that outlasts us. I should've built the sensory garden. Promised her eleven months ago. Garden's still half weeds.

🌿 Jenny06:16

I don't want to manage.

Jenny looks out at the half-weeded garden, thinking of the tin of seeds in the kitchen.

💭 thought

"Manage" is a dangerous word when the infection is climbing your leg.

🔧 Kevin06:18

No. You don't.

stand, shoulder protesting, walk to the garden path where the spruce blocks it, lay hand on the trunk

💭 thought

There it is. Not the ankle, not the antibiotics, not even the boat. The garden. Eleven months of talk and the soil's still mostly rock and weed. She doesn't say "you didn't build it." She doesn't have to.

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the keeper's cottage · midday

Midday meal and radio watch

Kevin and Jenny sit at the kitchen table with tin mugs of limpet broth and corned beef. The shortwave radio crackles on the table between them, tuned to 2182 kHz. The barometer reads 990 hPa steady. High tide is in six hours. The supply boat is due tomorrow. Kevin's shoulder is braced against the chair back; Jenny's ankle is propped on a stool, the fresh poultice warming through the gauze.

Kevin monitored the shortwave radio through the morning, hearing only static and a fragmented news bulletin about Ukraine's power grid. Jenny remained at the cottage, tracking the infection's spread past her marked boundary while the barometer held steady at 990 hPa. The supply boat's confirmed arrival window remains tomorrow at high tide.

🔧 Kevin06:19

Wind's west-northwest. Holding steady. If it doesn't back round by midnight, we go at first light.

lift mug, blow steam off the broth, take a slow sip

💭 thought

Six hours to high tide. Barometer holding. If the wind doesn't back round to the southwest by midnight, we've got a window. Need to check the dinghy's bilge pump one more time before dark.

🌿 Jenny06:20

The barometer is dropping too fast. We need to be ready if the boat is pushed early by the swell.

Jenny lean back, closing her eyes briefly as the pulsing in her ankle spikes.

💭 thought

The fever is making the edges of the room blur, but I need to stay sharp for the radio check.

🔧 Kevin06:20

It's steady. Has been for four hours. But the swell's running two metres at the harbour mouth. If the captain calls it early, he'll come in on the ebb. Dinghy's tied for it either way.

set mug down, push back from table, walk to porch door and scan the horizon

💭 thought

She's reading the same numbers I am. 990 steady doesn't mean holding — it means the bottom hasn't fallen out yet. Swell's already pushing into the cove.

🌿 Jenny06:22

Check the radio again. I want to hear Tom's frequency before the tide turns.

Jenny reach for the water glass, her hand trembling slightly as she grips the rim.

💭 thought

If the boat doesn't come, I won't have enough antibiotics to finish the course.

🔧 Kevin06:22

Already checked. 0200, 0600, 1000. Nothing but static on 3915. He's not transmitting.

cross to the radio shelf, flip the power switch, turn the squelch knob, wait for the hiss to settle

💭 thought

Tom's frequency. She knows I've been listening. Knows I keyed the mic on his birthday. She's giving me an out — or a reason.

🌿 Jenny06:24

Then we wait. The island doesn't care about our schedule.

Jenny shift her weight on the stool, wincing as the heat in her ankle radiates through the gauze.

💭 thought

If he isn't transmitting, the weather might have kept him at the dock entirely.

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the keeper's cottage · afternoon

Afternoon wound assessment and supply boat watch

Kevin and Jenny sit at the kitchen table as afternoon light thins through the overcast. The barometer still reads 990 hPa. The tide is high, surf booming on the reef. Jenny's ankle is unwrapped for inspection. Kevin has the scalpel, gauze, and saline ready. The supply boat is due tomorrow at high tide — or the dinghy leaves at 0530 if the wind holds.

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

🔧 Kevin06:25

Hold still. Same as this morning. Breathe through it.

debride and flush Jenny's ankle wound with saline and boiled rainwater, apply fresh sea beet-mint-honey poultice, re-wrap with clean gauze

💭 thought

The red line's crept past where I marked it yesterday. Two centimetres up the calf, maybe three. Hot to touch. She's not saying how bad it hurts but her breathing's shallow. Tomorrow's high tide is our window — supply boat or the dinghy. If the wind holds below Force 6 I row us both. If it doesn't, I cut deeper than today and pray the split-dose antibiotics hold. My hands are steady. They're always steady for this.

🌿 Jenny06:27

The barometer's holding at 990, but I can still walk the ridge tomorrow. I need to check the soil moisture in pocket seven before it gets dark.

Take the scalpel from Kevin and examine the wound margins more carefully, noting the extent of tissue damage beyond the visible red line.

💭 thought

The infection line has moved another centimeter overnight, crossing the third marker I drew yesterday. Trimethoprim isn't touching this. I need to map pocket seven tomorrow regardless - if I don't plant those seeds, they die with me on this island.

🔧 Kevin06:27

You're not walking the ridge. The boat comes tomorrow or we row. Pocket seven waits.

keep the scalpel ready, watch her face for the flinch when she probes past the marked boundary

💭 thought

She's not walking the ridge tomorrow. Not with that leg. Not with the tide coming in high and the barometer stuck at 990. She's trying to bargain with me the only way she knows — pretend normal, pretend useful. The scalpel in her fingers is clean but her hand trembles. Barely. Most wouldn't see it. I do.

🌿 Jenny06:28

It's only five minutes, Kevin. I just need to see the drainage levels before the rain stops.

Lean back against the stone wall, closing my eyes as the throbbing in my ankle syncs with the rhythm of the surf.

💭 thought

He thinks the boat is the clock, but the fever is the clock. If I don't find that soil now, grandmother's tin is just a burial.

🔧 Kevin06:29

No. You stay here. I'll check pocket seven at first light if the tide allows. You rest. That's not a request.

set the scalpel down on the clean gauze, pull the wool blanket tighter around her shoulders, pour the lukewarm coffee from the tin mug into the other one and set it beside her hand

💭 thought

Five minutes on that slope with a leg going septic. She'd slide on the clay, tear the wound wide open, and I'd be hauling her back in the dark with no antibiotics left. The surf's loud enough to cover the generator's rattle. She's fading — eyes closed, colour gone grey under the tan. Metronidazole's done. Doxycycline's barely touching it. Tomorrow's the last chance.

🌿 Jenny06:31

The coffee's cold now. Bring me the notebook.

Reach for the waterproof casing containing the sea beet morphology sketches, then pull the soil pH log across the desk.

💭 thought

First light and high tide - he's right, the wind's holding northeast. But I can't wait until then to map this soil. My fingers know the difference between sand and clay, between drainage and stagnation.

🔧 Kevin06:31

Coffee's in the pot on the stove. Still hot. Notebook's in the bottom drawer.

rise from the table, limp to the wood stove, lift the kettle lid and check the water level, pour fresh hot coffee into her tin mug, set it steaming beside the waterproof casing, pull the island notebook from the bottom drawer and set it ato

💭 thought

She's trading rest for records. Always the same — the work won't wait, the island won't wait, her body can wait. The coffee's cold because she forgot to drink it three hours ago. The notebook's in the drawer under the radio log, salt-stained corners, pages warped from the damp. She'll sketch pocket seven from memory and call it rest.

🌿 Jenny06:33

Give me the pH test strips. I need to verify the drainage before dark.

Open the waterproof casing and extract the soil pH log, then reach for the test strips while Kevin pours the coffee.

💭 thought

The coffee's steaming - he knows I need warmth, not just caffeine. The notebook's here, but I need the soil samples first. If that pocket seven holds what I think it holds, I can plant in the morning.

🔧 Kevin06:33

Two strips left. We save them for the lighthouse ruins if the boat brings new vials. You know the reading. You wrote it.

set the hot mug firmly beside her fingers, close the waterproof casing over the pH log, tap the tin once — a sound that means stop

💭 thought

Two strips left in the new kit. She wants to burn one on a slope she can't reach, testing drainage she already mapped in June. The log shows pocket seven at 6.2 with slump notation — she knows this. She's stalling. Keeping her hands busy so she doesn't have to look at the leg, the boat that might not come, the brother I haven't called in eleven months. The coffee steam rises. She hasn't touched the mug.

🌿 Jenny06:34

I know the reading, 6.8. I'll remember it for the morning report.

Wrap my hands around the warm mug, letting the heat sink into my palms as I watch the rain hit the window.

💭 thought

Two strips isn't enough for a proper survey, but he's right, the fever is making the world tilt. If I don't get the pH right now, the seeds will just rot in the tin.

🔧 Kevin06:34

The log says 6.2. Slump zone. You marked it in red wax.

pull out the chair opposite her, sit heavy, let the silence stretch while the surf booms on the reef

💭 thought

She said 6.8. The log says 6.2 with slump. She's testing me or her memory's going with the fever. Either way she just lied — small, quiet, deliberate. The mug warms her hands but she hasn't sipped. Rain hammers the glass. Barometer's stuck at 990. Tomorrow high tide decides everything. I should check the dinghy's bow line again. Check the Yanmar's oil. Check the ditch bag. But I'm standing here watching her not drink coffee, and the knot in my chest won't loosen.

🌿 Jenny06:37

The slump zone's not viable yet. I need to amend it with lime before dawn.

Open the burlap sack of crushed lime and let a handful fall into the cup of coffee, watching it disperse.

💭 thought

6.2 is too acidic, too close to the slump line. The red wax marks show where the drainage fails. If I plant in that pocket without amendment, the seeds just rot.

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the keeper's cottage · evening

A Quiet Stretch

Back at the cottage.

Kevin debrided Jenny's ankle wound, flushed it with saline, and applied a fresh sea beet-mint-honey poultice. The shortwave radio aerial is confirmed destroyed, leaving only a longwire option if wind permits. Jenny clutched the heirloom seed tin, insisting on north ridge soil assessment regardless of the supply boat's arrival.

🔧 Kevin06:38

Kevin — walk to the kitchen, check the water tank level, then the radio aerial tension

💭 thought

The porch smells of woodsmoke and salt. Jenny's mug sits where she left it, broth cold now. My shoulder screams from the rowing position I held too long yesterday. The barometer hasn't moved in six hours — 990, steady. That's either the eye or the calm before. Supply boat due on the high tide tomorrow. Two days late already.

🌿 Jenny06:38

Is the water clear?

Lean heavily against the doorframe, shifting weight off the pulsing ankle, and watch the barometer needle on the wall.

💭 thought

The tank is nearly full, but my leg feels like a hot iron. If that boat doesn't show tomorrow, I'm out of gauze and antibiotics.

🔧 Kevin06:40

Tank's clear. Four hundred litres, no sediment. Roof leak's held since the tarp.

set a fresh mug of water on the table beside her, pull out the chair

💭 thought

She's tracking the same thing I am. The needle hasn't twitched. Clear water means the tank's holding — no new leaks from the storm, no salt intrusion. But she's really asking if we can wait one more tide.

🌿 Jenny06:41

Kevin. The poultice isn't holding. I need to dress it properly, and I need you to help me check the north ridge soil tomorrow.

Point to the ankle with the fresh gauze-wrapped fingers, then gestures toward the map spread on the kitchen table.

💭 thought

The infection line has definitely moved past the third marker overnight. Trimethoprim isn't cutting it alone.

🔧 Kevin06:42

The boat comes tomorrow. We get her to the clinic, they cut it open proper, IV antibiotics. You don't walk the ridge tomorrow.

pick up the scalpel from the table, sterilize the blade in the candle flame, lay out fresh gauze and the sea beet-mint-honey mix

💭 thought

The red line on her skin has crept past the pen mark I made yesterday. She knows it. I know it. She's trading — her ankle for the ridge work, like we're bartering at a market. The supply boat's the only real clock now.

🌿 Jenny06:42

Two days for the boat, one for the debride. way... don't worry about the garden yet.

Sit heavily in the chair, wincing as the movement brushes the swollen skin, and watch him prep the supplies.

💭 thought

If the boat is late, the seeds rot in the tin and this leg rots with them.

🔧 Kevin06:44

Boat's not a promise. You're not walking anywhere tomorrow.

unwrap the old poultice, drop the soiled gauze in the burn bag, flush the wound with hot saline from the mug, work slow and careful

💭 thought

She's counting different math than me. Two days for the boat — if it comes. One day for the crossing if I row. Three days of split-dose antibiotics left. She's trying to make the garden sound small so I'll leave it and tend her. The ridge soil can wait. She can't.

🌿 Jenny06:44

If it doesn't come... I need the radio. And the seed tin.

Reach out a shaky hand to touch the cold metal of grandmother's seed tin on the table.

💭 thought

The fever is spiking back up again. I can feel the heat in my face now.

🔧 Kevin06:46

Radio's dead. Aerial took the mast in the gust. Coax is good, insulator's good, but the whip's gone. I can rig a longwire if the wind drops.

pack the fresh poultice thick over the wound, wrap it clean with gauze, tie off with sail twine, set the mug of warm water in her hands

💭 thought

She's planning for the version where the boat doesn't show. The version where I row her out in a dinghy that vibrates above half throttle, through a barometer that's been stuck at 990 for twelve hours. The seed tin — she's thinking legacy. I'm thinking tourniquet.

🌿 Jenny06:46

Just the seeds, Kevin. If I can't go... find the right soil.

Clutch the tin tightly, fingers tracing the rust in the metal, listening to the rain on the stone roof.

💭 thought

way is failing. The radio, the boat, my leg.

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the keeper's cottage · night

Night Watch and Fever

Rain hammers the tarp on the cottage roof. Kevin sits by the stove feeding spruce kindling, the Yanmar injector pump parts laid out on the table for morning reassembly. Jenny lies on the porch bench under the wool blanket, ankle elevated on a sandbag, breathing shallow and fast. The barometer holds at 990 hPa. The supply boat is due at high tide tomorrow. Neither of them sleeps.

Kevin and Jenny shared warm broth on the porch while checking Jenny's ankle infection boundary against the morning pen mark. The infection has not spread past the marked line, but her fever remains at 38.8°C. Kevin confirmed the supply boat's arrival for tomorrow's high tide with a two-hour window, bringing replacement impeller and full antibiotic resupply.

🔧 Kevin06:48

Jen. You awake?

Check the infection boundary on her ankle against the pen mark from this morning, then feel her forehead for fever.

💭 thought

Her breathing's wrong — too shallow, too fast. The infection's tracking past the marked line again. If the supply boat misses tomorrow's tide, I'm cutting it open at first light. No more waiting.

🌿 Jenny06:49

Kevin. The border's holding, but I need you to understand something. Tomorrow at high tide, if the boat's there, you'll meet it at the dock. But if something happens to me - if the infection spreads or the barometer drops below 990 - you need to go to pocket seven on the north ridge. The soil there's pH 6.2, marked on the map with red wax. Plant the seeds from my tin there. Moon & stars, black cocos, scarlet runners. Don't wait for me to tell you twice.

Feel the ankle boundary with clean fingers, noting no expansion past the morning mark. Apply fresh sea beet-mint poultice from the drying bundle.

💭 thought

The infection line hasn't moved past the third marker, but her pulse is racing. Trimethoprim buys time, but we don't have time to waste if it spreads. Pocket seven's pH 6.2 soil could sustain her grandmother's seeds, but the barometer's steady at 990 - one pressure drop and we're alone for 72 hours. Kevin's hands are steady on the injector pump parts, just like when he photographed the ankle without being asked. He notices everything. So I need to be clear about what needs to happen tomorrow.

🔧 Kevin06:50

The boat's coming. High tide tomorrow. Two-hour window. Captain confirmed. Replacement impeller, full antibiotic resupply. You're not dying on me.

Press the back of my hand to her forehead, then reach for the tin mug of warm broth on the porch table and hold it to her lips.

💭 thought

She's planning for me to fail her. Pocket seven's a death trap — the slump zone, pH 6.2 with active weep. She knows that. She's giving me orders because she thinks she won't be here to plant them herself.

🌿 Jenny06:50

I know. way... keep the radio on. If the pressure drops further tonight...

Sip the broth slowly, closing eyes against the pulsing heat in the leg. Tighten grip on the seed tin under the blanket.

💭 thought

He's so certain. The barometer won't stop falling. If the tide comes in and the horizon is empty, those seeds stay in the tin and I stay on this bench.

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What changed

3 intentions for today.

plan · dawn

×2

A tree has come down across the path in the wind.

tree_down · dawn

Gave up on "make" after 3 failed attempts.

job_dropped · morning

Fallen spruce trunk across garden path was salvageable for firewood/timber once cleared

discovery · morning

Ankle infection has spread past the previously marked boundary despite trimethoprim

discovery · morning

Kevin and Jenny ate.

meal · morning

Infection has breached the marked boundary with visible lymphangitic streaking toward the calf, indicating systemic spread risk

discovery · midday

The rain tank gained about 25 litres.

weather · midday

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

quiet_transition · afternoon

The rain tank gained about 25 litres.

weather · afternoon

A new project: shortwave longwire rig.

project_started · evening

shortwave whip aerial completely destroyed in gust; only longwire option remains

discovery · evening

ankle infection has spread past previously marked boundary despite trimethoprim

discovery · evening

Kevin and Jenny ate.

meal · evening

A seabird chick has fallen from the cliff ledges.

chick_fallen · night

supply boat confirmed for tomorrow high tide with two-hour window; replacement impeller and full antibiotic resupply aboard

discovery · night

The rain tank gained about 25 litres.

weather · night

← Day 981 Day 983 →

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