Chapter 9 #2
Steven tied the tarp to the remaining rafters using strips from her cover-up and the blue nylon cord he’d found tangled around a tree root.
The canvas sagged in the center, but it gave them another patch of dry—and that was what counted.
The tarp sloped toward the front; any new rainfall would flow off the lean-to and onto the old sand floor, not into their belongings.
He stepped back and surveyed their handiwork. “I’d pay at least seventy-three dollars for this,” he said with a lopsided grin.
“We accept Eastern Caribbean dollars,” Lucy replied, tucking the scissors into her back pocket.
She crouched beside one of the basins as rain dripped into it, mingling with grit and disintegrating bark.
Pulling a piece of gauze from the first-aid kit, she folded it over the edge and let the water trickle through.
Each drop that landed in the basin sang a tiny ping of promise.
When it had filled enough for a decent sip, she mixed an electrolyte packet into half the bottle.
Warm, sweet with artificial orange, but still water.
They both leaned forward and took turns gulping—three long pulls for her, then a longer pause as Steven drank.
Comfort spread through Lucy’s chest. They had water. They had shelter. They had a lighter, tinder, cordage, and maybe enough spirit to survive until light. She felt the tight coil of panic loosen, leaving behind a sharper edge of resolve.
She looked across at Steven. “Now we make a fire.”
He nodded. “Do it.”
Lucy held the lighter under the pale curls of wood.
On the first strike, the flame sputtered and died; moisture lay hidden beneath the surface.
She tried again, shielding the tiny blaze with cupped hands, but it wavered.
On the third attempt, she coaxed a slender orange tongue into life among the fine fibers.
Her breath caught as the tinder blackened and curled into ember.
Carefully, she laid one slender twig atop the glowing ember—just enough to hold the heat—and then another.
The fire found its rhythm, brightening in the darkness of the ruined cabin, sending sparks dancing toward the torn canvas above.
They both held their breath, hands half outstretched as if willing the flame to grow.
Outside the cabin, the wind blew more gently now.
The rain had eased to a soft drum. Within minutes, Lucy had fashioned a shallow ring of stones she’d found among the sand to cradle the fire.
She fed it bark and leaves, smoking them in controlled curls.
A swirl of thick white drift billowed up and out the ruined wall, where it caught in the air above the cove, trailing like a beacon.
Lucy crouched beside the fire, watching its glow in her widened eyes.
The smoke alone might draw attention from any passing boat or shore lookout.
She dared to hope someone would see it, someone would question why only smoke, why no figures on the shore.
But each time she peered toward the channel, all she saw was the endless gray of water and sky.
Steven knelt next to her, jaw set, staring at the flames. Then he shifted and looked at her, eyes narrowing against the flickering light. “How could they just leave us?”
Lucy swallowed hard. “I don’t think they left us on purpose,” she said, her voice measured. “I think Karina trusted another boat to wait for us.”
His gaze met hers. There was a flicker of something—doubt, maybe disappointment. “That’s not what you mean,” he said.
“It is,” she insisted. “She had the master list. She signed our names off when we boarded. She’s meticulous. She would have checked people off when they got on the boat. But maybe she thought we came back on the other launch.”
Steven’s lips pressed into a thin line.
Lucy closed her eyes and remembered the quick flourish of Karina’s pen, the careful way she’d checked names off one after another. You’d think someone so meticulous could have remembered there’d been two launches and the crew boat, she thought to herself.
But the truth sank in, as unforgiving as a wave: if the passengers switched boats, if they’d gotten mixed up in the hurry to leave—if one boat captain assumed they were on the other—they’d end up alone.
A rumble of thunder rolled in from the northeast, low and distant.
Lucy opened her eyes, studying Steven’s profile in the firelight.
Steven’s jaw unclenched slightly. He rested his elbow on his knee, letting a few more coals flare.
“What about Adam?” he asked. “What happens when he finds out you’re not on the ship? ”
Lucy looked away from the flames toward the cove. The firelight carved her shadow on the water like a phantom. “He’ll notice,” she said. “When everyone else is accounted for except us, he’ll know. He’ll make them turn the boats right back around.”
“People don’t always notice at once,” Steven pointed out. “It might be hours before someone realizes. With the storm they might not risk coming back.”
The silence between them grew until there was a slight break in the storm, leaving a damp hush and a strip of golden light on the horizon.
They could hear the soft hiss of waves creeping higher onto the sand.
Darkness would come fast once the sun dipped, and their signal fire might be the only thing out here anyone could see.
They sat side by side, quietly feeding small twigs into the blaze while the first stars blinked through the thinning clouds.
Lucy tucked her knees under her chin and let the warmth soak into her bones.
The immediate danger of rain and exposure had passed; now the question was rescue—if rescue would come.
“Steven,” she asked after a while, “you and Karina…have you been dating long?”
He paused, watching smoke spiral upward.
Then he shifted his position, as if choosing his next words with care.
“We’re friends. She’s been pretending to be my girlfriend,” he said flatly.
“My parents—especially my dad—need something simple to believe. My family is religious, they would never accept me if they knew I was gay. After my dad’s stroke, my family worried about stress killing him.
I told them we were together to stop the questions. ”
Lucy blinked. “Does Adam know?”
Steven shook his head. “No. I don’t think so. It didn’t seem relevant. I asked Karina to help me, and she did. She’s a good liar, when she tells a story, she builds it so well no one can tell.”
Lucy frowned. “So you’re trusting her with that lie and also trusting her to get you off this island?”
He looked at her across the dancing flames. “Well when you put it like that…,” he gave a little laugh. “We don’t have much choice,” he said.
Her heart twinged. Part of her wanted to hold his hand, reassure him he wasn’t alone. But the fire’s heat kept them pinned in thoughtful distance.
Lucy exhaled. “We’ll be fine,” she said, though the words sounded thin in the open silence. “They’ll come soon.
Outside, the downpour eased to a steady drum.
Dark clouds still brooded over the channel, but the cove had brightened enough for Lucy to spy the distant rocks again.
No boat had come back. Every time she glanced toward the open wall, hope ricocheted in her chest and scattered attention she needed for survival.
“We should stick together,” she said, voice low. “If one of us twists an ankle or?—”
He snapped the scissors shut and slid them back into the kit. “I’m an ER nurse. I know how not to get hurt.”
“You slipped twice on the trail,” she reminded him.
He shrugged. “I recovered beautifully.”
Lucy passed him a towel, flattened with effort. “Hang on to anything you find that’s dry, but no poking under rocks or in holes. I swear this island breeds centipedes for sport.”
They hustled to the fringe of trees near the beach, where the canopy had sheltered the leaf litter.
Lucy spread the towel on damp ground and filled it with twigs, palm fiber, and bits of bark she’d peeled from fallen branches.
She discarded anything heavy with moisture—no use for soggy wood that would smother any spark. Signal fire, not art installation.
Steven crouched beside her and pointed to a tangle of nylon cord snagged in the roots. Deep blue, glossy where saltwater hadn’t rotted it away. He plucked it free, offered it with a theatrical bow.
“I’ve done my part for the rescue,” he declared.
“String,” Lucy teased, but her grin was warm.
“Cordage,” he corrected. “This is a strategic operation.”
She let him have that.
Spark attempts started failing. The first flame died under bark that looked dry but hid dampness beneath.
The second caught on the palm fiber, then snuffed when he loaded too many twigs.
On the third, wind howled through the broken wall, scattering the tinder across the sand.
Each time, Lucy’s fingers trembled. Her patience frayed; frustration built.
She pictured Adam taking over and insisting he could “just do it better,” and a fresh ache bloomed in her chest so sharp she dropped her jaw.
“Are you okay?” Steven crouched beside her, waiting—he’d learned to hold off on help until she asked.
“I… Adam would be terrible at this,” she huffed.
He cocked an eyebrow. “He’d give a keynote on firebuilding, I’m sure.”
She laughed, the tension loosening. “He’d assign the wood measurable objectives. Then blame the fire for not meeting them.”
His lips curved. Their shelter filled with the patter of rain on canvas—a weirdly soothing white noise that also reminded them time was slipping away.
“He’ll know by now,” Steven said quietly—so quietly she almost missed it.
Lucy separated damp scraps from the handful of dry fiber left. “We don’t know that.”
“It’s been hours.”