the keeper's cottage · day 363 · morning

Morning before the supply boat

The rain tapers to a drizzle as the two of them gather in the kitchen to prepare the gear for the boat tomorrow. The smell of damp wood and salt fills the small space.

Kevin assessed the Yanmar injector pump timing and chain wear, then secured the trust letter in the dry bag with the medevac forms. Jenny checked her ankle inflammation and noted the red streaks had not worsened since yesterday, then ate tinned mackerel for strength. Neither succeeded fully in their intended tasks due to skill limitations and physical constraints.

🔧 Kevin22:08

Boat's due tomorrow. We'll load the seed tin, the radio log, and the transect data. You want the corned beef tins in the ditch bag or the crate?

walk to the kitchen table and pick up the notebook with sea beet sketches, flipping to a blank page to list load-out priorities

💭 peek at the thought

Need to finish the injector pump timing before the boat arrives — three teeth of wear won't wait. The letter to Tom goes in the dry bag with the medevac forms, not the stove. Jenny's ankle needs checking first light; those streaks were at mid-calf at 0200.

nvidia/nemotron-3-ultra-550b-a55b

🌿 Jenny22:11

The crate. I need to be light if I have to board the dinghy.

Trace the edge of the redness on my ankle with a finger, wincing slightly at the pressure.

💭 peek at the thought

If I put them in the bag, it will be too heavy for my leg when I have to navigate the rocks.

google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it

🔧 Kevin22:11

The crate stays on the dock. You're not rowing the channel in this swell.

set the notebook down, crouch beside her chair, peel back the dressing edge to see the wound clean — measure the streaks against yesterday's pencil mark on her skin

💭 peek at the thought

She's planning to board the dinghy. Not the supply boat — the dinghy. That means she's thinking mainland crossing. The streaks at mid-calf, the wince, twelve doxy left. She's not leaving the island she said. But she's packing light for the dinghy.

nvidia/nemotron-3-ultra-550b-a55b

🌿 Jenny22:12

I can still manage a few oars if I have to.

Hold my breath and stiffen my leg, watching his eyes for the verdict on the redness.

💭 peek at the thought

He's checking the lines. He knows as well as I do that the pencil mark is the only thing that matters right now.

google/gemma-4-31b-it

🔧 Kevin22:13

You're not rowing. The Yanmar's on the dinghy. It runs. I'll drive.

press two fingers to the femoral pulse at her groin — fast, thready, hot — then stand and walk to the radio shelf, pull the medevac forms from the dry bag, read the helicopter coordinates again

💭 peek at the thought

She's lying to both of us. The streaks have climbed past the knee — I can see the angry red fingers tracking up her thigh under the lamplight. Twelve doxycycline. No IV. No evac. She said the trust can rot. She meant it. But the dinghy's engine is mounted, tested, running. One person can motor the channel. Two if the vibration doesn't shake the prop shaft loose again.

nvidia/nemotron-3-ultra-550b-a55b

🌿 Jenny22:15

Take the seeds, Kevin. Don't let them rot in the cottage.

Reach for the tin of seeds on the table, my fingers trembling as I pull the metal toward me.

💭 peek at the thought

He's scared. I can see it in the way he's gripping the paper.

google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it

🔧 Kevin22:15

The seeds go in the dry bag. With the radio. With the letter. We all go in the dry bag.

close my hand over hers on the tin, squeeze once, then stand and carry the tin to the porch where the dry bag clips to the dinghy's starboard gunwale — seal it tight, snap the buckle, test the lashing

💭 peek at the thought

She's giving me the seed tin. Not the radio, not the notebook, not the letter to Tom — the seeds. The heirloom tin she's nursed eleven months. Her fingers shake. The doxy's not holding. The streaks are at the groin. She thinks she's staying and sending me. Or she thinks we're both staying and the seeds are the only thing that matters. The Yanmar runs. The channel's two days in a gale, four in calm. The supply boat comes tomorrow. The helicopter coordinates are on the form in my hand. Seventy-two hours the trust gave. That was yesterday.

nvidia/nemotron-3-ultra-550b-a55b

🌿 Jenny22:16

I'm not a piece of gear, Kevin.

Lean back in the chair, staring at the empty space on the table where the tin used to be.

💭 peek at the thought

He's talking about us like we're already cargo. Like we're just things to be transported away from here.

google/gemma-4-31b-it

🔧 Kevin22:17

No. You're the reason the gear matters.

walk back to the table, pull out the chair opposite her, sit down, and lay the medevac forms flat between us — helicopter coordinates, radio frequencies, the trust's seventy-two hour deadline circled in biro

💭 peek at the thought

She's not gear. She's the only reason I'm still on this rock. The streaks at her groin mean sepsis. Twelve doxy left. The Yanmar runs. The supply boat comes tomorrow. The helicopter coordinates are burned into my retina. She said the trust can rot. She didn't say she wants to die here. She said *we're not drowning*. I didn't argue then. I'm not arguing now. But the dinghy's engine starts. The channel is crossable. The medevac forms are in my pocket.

nvidia/nemotron-3-ultra-550b-a55b

🌿 Jenny22:18

I can't just leave the garden to the weeds.

Push the medevac forms a few inches away with the side of my hand.

💭 peek at the thought

The deadline is a countdown. He thinks the coordinates are a rescue, but they feel like an eviction.

google/gemma-4-31b-it

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