the keeper's cottage · day 371 · evening

Evening radio watch and wound care

Kevin returns from the dock with the dinghy blocked and his findings on the shaft play and bracket alignment. Jenny sits on the porch bench, leg elevated, notebook open to a sketch of the spreading red streaks. The shortwave sits silent on the table. The tide is at its lowest, the barometer still rising. They share a tin of mackerel and decide whether to call a medevac on the 2200 schedule.

The tide has gone out, leaving the slick rocks of the pools glistening in the fading light. Jenny sits on the porch steps, back against the hot whitewashed stone, watching the red streaks tracking higher up her calf toward the knee. Kevin sits beside her, the tin of mackerel open between them, his hand gripping the shortwave mic as he waits for the clock to strike.

🔧 Kevin05:59

Shaft's true. Bronze sleeve holding. Cutlass bearing clean. Vibration's the mast bracket — flexes under load. Can shim the heel with stainless stock, through-bolt it solid. Half day's work at most." I set the mackerel tin between us, fork resting on the rim. "Your ankle?

sit on the porch step beside her, back against the whitewashed wall, watching the tide pools glisten in the low light

💭 peek at the thought

The shaft's clean, the sleeve I pressed runs true in the cutlass. Vibration's coming from the mast bracket flexing under torque — same as I suspected. Means I can fix it without pulling the engine, just need to shim the bracket heel and through-bolt it proper. But Jenny's ankle... those streaks past her knee now. Hot to touch. She's tracking it in her notebook like she's recording weather data. Three days to the supply boat if she comes. We call medevac tonight, we lose the island, the contract, the garden. We don't, and she might not make three days. She knows it. I know it. The radio's been dead silent all day.

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

🌿 Jenny06:00

It's hot, Kevin. And it's pulsing like a second heart.

Trace the furthest edge of the redness with a clean finger, marking the skin in the notebook with a light pencil.

💭 peek at the thought

The red has moved half an inch since this morning. If the boat doesn't come in three days, I'm going to lose the leg to this island.

google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it

🔧 Kevin06:01

Medevac call at 2200. On 4075. We give position, nature, vitals. They'll task the helicopter from Stornoway — four hours flight time, weather permitting." I pick up the fork, spear a piece of mackerel, hold it out to her. "Eat first. Need strength for the flight if they come. Need strength to wait if they don't.

hand her the fork, then reach for the shortwave mic on the table, thumb finding the PTT switch

💭 peek at the thought

She's marking it like a transect line. Clinical. Precise. The pencil doesn't shake. Her ankle's swollen past the brace now, skin stretched shiny over the bone. Red streaks fanning upward — lymphangitic spread, textbook. She's out of antibiotics. The blister pack's empty on the shelf. Three days to the supply boat if she comes. If the weather holds. If the barometer doesn't lie. I should've hauled the dinghy yesterday, should've run the Yanmar at load, should've forced the call then. Now the tide's turning and the radio's silent and she's drawing maps on her own leg.

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

🌿 Jenny06:02

I'm not hungry. Everything just feels too tight.

Take a small, mechanical bite of the fish anyway, eyes fixed on the red streaks near my knee.

💭 peek at the thought

I can't even swallow. The smell of the salt and the fish is making me sick.

google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it

🔧 Kevin06:02

"2200's in forty minutes. I'll call. You rest." The mic feels light in my hand, coiled cord stiff with salt. "If they ask for a decision maker — you're conscious, you're competent. They'll want your voice. But if you can't..." I don't finish. The tide turns below the dock, water sucking at the pilings.

key the mic, hold it without transmitting, listening to the receiver hiss

💭 peek at the thought

She's eating because I told her to. Not because she wants to. The fish sits heavy in my own gut — tin metal and oil and salt. Her knee. The streaks reached her knee. That's not cellulitis anymore, that's tracking toward the femoral, toward the groin, toward the blood. Sepsis doesn't care about duty or contracts or gardens. Four hours from Stornoway if the helicopter launches. Four hours if the weather holds. The barometer's rising but the sky's bruised purple-west, clouds stacking high. Isaias out there somewhere, feeding on warm water. She knows the math. She's doing the math on her skin with a pencil.

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

🌿 Jenny06:03

I'll be ready. Just... tell them the infection is moving.

Lean back against the stone wall, closing my eyes to try and ignore the throbbing in my calf.

💭 peek at the thought

If I can't speak, they'll think I'm already gone. I have to plant those seeds first.

google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it

🔧 Kevin06:04

Stornoway Coastguard, Stornoway Coastguard, this is Sorrel Island caretaker station, call sign Mike Victor Two Niner, on four zero seven five kilohertz. Medical emergency. Request medevac for adult female, thirty-seven, spreading cellulitis left lower limb with lymphangitic tracking to femoral region, afebrile last check but tachycardia present, no antibiotics remaining. Position five seven degrees one two minutes north, zero zero six degrees four five minutes west. Over.

release the PTT, hold the mic to my ear, watch the second hand sweep

💭 peek at the thought

She said "when" not "if." She's already decided. The pencil rests on her notebook, capped, the red line on her skin stopping just above the knee. Her breathing's shallow, controlled — pain management without drugs. The antibiotic blister pack empty on the shelf. Three days of supplies for two, fifty-four days of food, nearly four hundred litres of water. A garden half-built, a letter to Tom sealed in the radio box, a bronze sleeve pressed true on a prop shaft. None of it matters if she dies on this porch. The mic's cold against my thumb. Static hisses, thin and endless. 21:56 by the kitchen clock. Four minutes.

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

🌿 Jenny06:05

(silent)

Grip the edge of the notebook, my knuckles white, listening to the radio hiss in the humid air.

💭 peek at the thought

Silence on the other end is worse than the static. Please let them answer.

google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it

🔧 Kevin06:07

Sorrel Island, Mike Victor Two Niner, on three eight one five. Medical emergency. Adult female, sepsis risk, antibiotics exhausted. Position five seven one two north, zero zero six four five west. Any station, any coastguard, please relay. Over.

switch frequency, key the mic again, lean forward over the radio

💭 peek at the thought

Nothing. Just static eating the air. The barometer needle hasn't moved in twenty minutes — 995 and holding. Isaias must be sucking the gradient flat. Stornoway's either not hearing, not answering, or the skip's wrong tonight. My thumb finds the channel selector before I think: Tom's frequency. 3815. The one I've listened on every night for eleven months. The one I've never called. If Stornoway's deaf, maybe the skip's different there. Maybe someone's listening.

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

🌿 Jenny06:07

I'm still here.

Press my palm against the hot skin of my ankle, trying to cool the fever out of the bone.

💭 peek at the thought

The static is the only thing talking back. I am so tired of being brave.

google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it

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