CHAPTER NINETEEN
ELLIOT
Two days later...
“Nearly there,” Hank says as he sits beside the fallen tree that tried to kill us a few days ago, which we’ve been stripping for parts. His eyes are bloodshot, and his voice is a little crazed. “There are enough small branches left. We should have the third X well underway by dusk.”
My gaze flits over to the shore. “Crab!” I yelp and take off stumbling.
It’s the third one I’ve seen today, and all my senses flash to full alert when I spot it. The little white thing is scuttling down the store, and I try to quiet-run and pounce my way to it, high-stepping through the sand.
I dive, but it’s gone into the ocean before I land.
Defeated, I return to Hank. He’s bare-chested and wearing his ripped, fraying pants. I’ve just got my T-shirt on.
“Maybe if I make a spear,” I mumble.
“You know my thoughts,” Hank says. “Crab is a pipe dream. Doesn’t matter how hungry we are. They’re too fast.”
“Your doubts are just going to make it taste better when we’re sucking crab legs.”
I look back at the pile of broken branches, no seafood in my stomach today. The violets have faded away, too, all the easy-to-find patches devoured, and the birds have cleared out the berry bushes.
With an exhausted nod, I grab a branch, and Hank does the same. Each dragging a heavy load behind us, shedding twigs along the way, Hank and I walk down the beach with our arms around each other for support. Stumble after stumble.
The days and nights are adding up. I’m losing track of time. But Hank and I each still have this purpose, survival, that keeps us going.
Our bodies are linked. We hump and grope in the night, feed each other during the day. We’re in this together, fighting to stay alive. I’ve never been as present anywhere as I am here on this island, where every taste of food is epic. Things as normal as the cloud pattern have become life-or-death, and the only relief comes when we grind against each other.
Dizzy and needing to rub my aching feet, I request a break. Hank dips his head in the water and washes his beard, and we both gather up more seaweed, which we process and eat wearily. Before continuing on our way, he gives me a quick foot massage, gentle on my bruises.
When I look out over the water, I see the fuzzy shape of the other island in the distance. “I know a raft is a risky idea,” I say, “but if we can see the other island from here, it must be close.”
“Hard to accurately estimate,” Hank says. “And neither of us knows the first thing about building a raft.”
I look at the branches we’re hauling. “We’re such a good team, though. Raft-making is definitely within our capacities.”
Hank considers me as he stands back up. “There’s no chance in hell that I’m braving the ocean on a raft, but if you want to pullsome wood aside and try to make one here in the cove, go for it. I’m not going to try and stop you.”
I smile as I stand to join him. “Challenge accepted.”
We go back to dragging sticks.
“Tell me about your family’s bookstore,” I ask, seeking a distraction as my muscles burn. “You must have loved it there, right?”
“The bookstore,” Hank says as he hefts his branch over a rock. “Let’s see. When I was a kid, it was magical. Mainly used books, but some new. There were two big red armchairs in the back, and my sister and I would plop our butts down and read all day, her sci-fi and me fantasy.”
“Sounds cozy.”
“It was. And it nearly paid the bills. But it was the nineties, and the internet and big chains came along.” He shakes his head. “The best story I can think of is the year my dad gave my mom a surprise birthday party at the store.”
“What happened?”
I can’t imagine my family surprising each other, at least not with something loving.
“He recruited his friends to help move all the bookshelves aside. The shop was one big open room, and he made it into a disco flashback, 70s style. Everyone found vintage suits and dresses, they hired a DJ, and went all out.”
“Fun!”
