the old shrine · day 847 · evening

Evening in the aftermath

The rain slows to a steady drizzle as you sit in the dim light, the letter lying open between you.

Kevin insisted that Jenny take her antibiotics and treat her ankle before the storm hit. Jenny resisted initially to focus on the rising tide, but she eventually took the medicine and prepared her notes for the transect.

🌿 Jenny15:13

Ten days? He said they would be here week.

Reach out to touch the paper, my fingers trembling slightly.

💭 peek at the thought

The boat isn't coming for ten days because of the swell, and my ankle is screaming again.

google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it

🔧 Kevin15:13

Captain said three days at high tide. Two-hour window. That was yesterday's contact.

reach for the kettle on the stove, pour hot water into the second tin mug, set it down in front of Jenny without a word

💭 peek at the thought

The supply boat's delayed again. Three days became ten. Jenny's reading the letter from Tom and the trust letter both at once — her mother, the boat, the timeline collapsing. She's trembling. I should have opened Tom's letter weeks ago. Should have burned it or answered it. Now it sits in the dry bag with the medevac forms like a confession.

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

🌿 Jenny15:15

The weather doesn't care about your radio contacts, Kevin.

Wrap both hands around the warm mug, letting the heat sink into my cold palms.

💭 peek at the thought

He's looking at the schedule like it's a machine he can fix with a wrench.

google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it

🔧 Kevin15:15

No. It doesn't.

pull the wool blanket from the back of the chair and drape it over her shoulders, then sit back in my own seat, mug untouched

💭 peek at the thought

She's right. The barometer's at 977 and falling. Three days at high tide means nothing if the swell closes the harbor mouth. She's cold through — ankle, fever, the weight of her mother's death settling in bones that were already tired. The mug helps. Small things.

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

🌿 Jenny15:17

I need to check the tide pools. Need to map the north ridge population before the storm surge.

Place the letter face-down on the table, reach for my field notebook from the cottage shelf.

💭 peek at the thought

His hands are shaking too, and he's trying to warm them by pouring hot water into a mug and setting it down in front of me.

poolside/laguna-xs-2.1

🔧 Kevin15:17

Ankle first. Transect second. That's the order.

set my mug down hard, stand, and move to the porch door to block the exit — not threatening, just there

💭 peek at the thought

Her ankle's hot and swollen past the boot top. She took the antibiotic dose two hours ago but the fever's still riding her. The north ridge transect can wait — the Carex data's complete, the salt gland sketches are done. She's running from the letter face-down on the table. Running from Tom's words, her mother's death, the ten-day gap before the boat. I know this pattern. I've lived it.

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

🌿 Jenny15:19

I'm not a child, Kevin. I can see the water rising.

major back into the chair, the sharp pain in my ankle flaring as I look at him.

💭 peek at the thought

He's treating me like a project that needs a timeline instead of a person.

google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it

🔧 Kevin15:19

Didn't say you were a child. Said ankle first.

step back from the door, go to the medical kit on the high shelf, pull out the thermometer and the metronidazole blister pack, bring them to the table

💭 peek at the thought

She flinched. The ankle flared sharp enough to show on her face. She's stubborn — drove every bolt on the south piling with that foot, didn't miss a stroke — but stubborn doesn't outrun infection. The water's rising alright. Barometer 977, tide coming hard, storm due tonight or dawn. She needs to stay off it. Needs the next antibiotic dose in four hours. Needs to read the letter or burn it, not carry it like a stone in her pocket.

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

🌿 Jenny15:21

The tide is already too high. If the swell hits the dock, they won't even get in.

Reach for the blister pack, my fingers hovering over the plastic, not taking it yet.

💭 peek at the thought

He thinks if he organizes the medicine, the world will stop moving.

google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it

🔧 Kevin15:21

Take the pill, Jen. Water's in the mug.

tap the tin mug beside her — the fresh hot one, not the cold broth — and wait

💭 peek at the thought

She's calculating the supply boat window, the swell, the dock — anything but her own temperature. The metronidazole's in her hand but she won't take it. The letter from Tom sits face-down three inches from her fingers. The trust letter beside it. Ten days. Her mother. The boat that might not come. She's hovering because if she takes the pill she has to swallow, and if she swallows she has to sit still, and if she sits still the silence gets loud.

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

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