Even inside, the rot of fish seems to follow us in.
I don’t think I’ll ever be able to eat fish again. My stomach won’t tolerate it.
It takes four days for the endless swath of floating fish to be carried past our island on its way to other shores. I imagine it washing up against the coast of Florida or Newfoundland.
Clay walks the shoreline of the island, finding the fish that cling to our shores, and tossing them back out into the sea.
Inside the house, I throw open every window, I drag out every blanket and bedsheet and linen, scrubbing them in the wash basin just off the front porch, using the last bar of sheep’s milk soap. I hang them to dry, hoping the sea air will carry away the last of the smell.
We get a week of clean water and clean air. It rains, filling our water supply, washing our shores of the last of the fish guts.
I remember a quote I read once:
The good news: Nothing lasts forever.
The bad news: Nothing lasts forever.
And too soon, I wish I could go back to when the fish clotted our shores. I wish I could live forever in that awful smell.
Because at least we were safe.
At least I wasn’t afraid.
We waited too long to harvest the potatoes; they’ve begun to rot in the ground, and worms burrow through their fleshy centers. “Dammit,” I mutter, digging my spade into the soil, heaving up another foul batch. We should have been more careful, but as the garden has increased in size, there’s more to manage and keep track of.
“We’ll replant,” Clay reassures me. He’s had failed crops before; he’s learned that there’s no time for regret, for bitterness. But I hate to think of all the wasted hours planting the potatoes, only to lose most of them in the end.
I stand up from the soil, fingers coated in dirt. “I’ll go make us some tea.” I need a break from digging, frustration mounting inside me. But before I can start toward the house… my eyes catch on a shiver of movement.
I blink, focusing on the lower shoreline.
Three shadows are moving up from the rocky edge of the island.
Three men.
My eyes must be lying—a trick of the sea mist. I pinch my eyelids closed, open them again, and the men are closer now. Striding toward us.
My gaze flicks past them, to the ocean.
A ship, a good distance off. It’s massive. A freighter maybe, a shipping vessel. I can make out the windows along the hull, the metal railing, and even figures standing at the bow. But the exterior is a cold steel gray, with sharp, angular lines. Modern. Well-crafted. It’s no freighter. It looks military.
“Clay,” I hiss.
His head lifts, follows my gaze, seeing the men. “Get inside,” he whispers, standing up slowly.
But it’s too late. The men are only a few yards off. Tall, shouldered together. One of them has a gun strapped to his belt. The others, I can’t tell for sure. But they don’t look particularly threatening—their gait is easy, eyes swaying across our island, surveying it.
Still, my heartbeat slams against my eardrums.
The one in the middle lifts a hand over his eyes, shielded from the sun. “Ahoy,” he says. And for some reason the word makes me wince. It feels odd, out of place—maybe it’s just hearing a stranger’s voice after so long. A voice that isn’t Clay’s.
But neither of us respond.
The three men stop a few paces back from the garden, like tin soldiers, moving in unison. The man in the center is clean-shaven, from his face all the way across his scalp. Not a stitch of hair present, aside from his blond eyebrows. He looks like he’s in his early forties, with crisp blue eyes and a sharp jawline. His uniform is black with six gold buttons on the front, gold bands around the sleeves, and a collection of medals at the breast. It feels formal—too formal for visiting an unknown island. But what do I know of naval protocols and attire?
“Our apologies for intruding like this, but we tried signaling by radio. Didn’t get a response.”
Clay angles himself in front of me, shoulders back, eyes leveled on the men. “No radio here.”
