CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ELLIOT
When I wake in the morning, Hank is still passed out. He’s flat on his back on the dry needles, and he’s snoring under each breath.
I blink a few times, reorienting myself.
We remain stuck on the island. It’s one mishap after another.
And I hooked up with Hank.
I carefully extract myself and go to drink water. Not only did Hank and I hook up, we had sparks. He’s being Hank and acting cautious, but the energy is still there between us, warm as a campfire while he held me close all night, a strong arm around my torso and against my chest.
Despite everything, I felt safe.
I sit next to the creek and refresh in my underwear, now ripped on the side. The rocks are pointy on my butt, but I’m used to it.
It only makes sense that stranded sex is amazing. Horny and a little unhinged. And Hank is pretty amazing, too, honestly. In civilization, with our actual lives around us, we probably make zero sense. But right now, as long as we’re stuck on this island, it seems to me that Hank and I are a great idea.
We might be strangers, but I feel like Hank has seen a part of me that I’m still getting to know myself. Who we are to each other is surprising and unique, and a deep, instinctual urge goes through me when I think of him.
This is a unique combination of circumstance and sexual compatibility, and I am all about enjoying the one weirdly fun thing that’s come from our ordeal.
I splash cold water on my face, hoping that he still feels the same way after a solid sleep.
The sun comes out, climbing into a clear sky. After putting the wood for the shelter fire out to finish drying, I head straight to the beach to work on the signals. Hopefully, Hank will sleep in and get something close to a proper rest.
After a little time pulling branches from the woods, I spot him wandering down the beach. He’s in his boxer briefs and his filthy T-shirt, scratching his beard as he unevenly steps.
“Hank!” I yell. My voice comes out in a rasp, but when I try again, it works. “Over here!”
“Morning,” he says as he approaches, and I see he’s gathered more bitter flower greens. “Nice branches.”
I smile, glad to see him. “Thanks. See you got a breakfast haul.”
He pulls one mushroom from the greens, and my stomach rumbles. “Scant on protein.” He breaks the mushroom in half and gives me part, which he follows with some cattail shoots. “But considering our shoe construction has improved enough to last multiple days, we can start using cattail as a food source. And all these rains should bring fungus.”
I nod as I chew my half of the small mushroom. “The earthy flavor is growing on me.” When I nibble the cattail, it’s a little fibrous, but it tastes a bit like cucumber. “Not bad.”
Hank munches on a shoot. “It’s surprisingly pleasant.”
“I think that’s because of starvation.”
“Probably.”
We munch on the unsatisfying flower greens, too. “Should we try a berry bush?” I ask.
Hank nods in the affirmative, and we head into the trees. We have our regular check-in conversation, surveying our growing list of injuries and pains. When we arrive to the good bushes, there’s a flourish of movement, and I step back as a flock of birds seems to explode out of nowhere and fly away.
The berry bush remains, stripped bare.
“God damn songbirds,” I say.
Hank leans against a tree. “Motherfuckers,” he agrees.
I sigh and get down on my knees, reaching for a couple tiny remaining berries further back in the shrubs as my stomach rumbles.
“Okay,” I say. “Maybe food has become a priority again.”
