Chapter 9 #3
She flicked the lighter—the click, the spark, the tiny yellow blossom of flame.
She cupped it and touched it to the tight bundle of fibers.
Smoke curled. She held her breath until a thin orange line flickered through the center, then added the smallest shred of wood at a time.
The flame grew, dancing at first, then solid.
Steven watched without a word, as if staring would help it spread.
They nurtured it, feeding brittle curls, slender twigs, bits of shelf wood, until the fire burned in a shallow ring of stones near the open wall. Lucy dropped in a few damp leaves for smoke, thick white curls that billowed under the sagging roof and drove them coughing onto the sand.
“It works,” Steven rasped, wedging a handkerchief over his mouth. “We might choke on smoke before they rescue us, but at least we’ll be warm.”
Lucy wiped her eyes with the wet towel. “Smoke by day, flame by night.”
The downpour finally stopped. The cove shimmered—washed clean under ragged clouds. A thin orange strip of sky winked on the horizon. Everything felt exposed now without the curtain of rain. Insects stuttered back to life, waves tinkled, something scuttled beyond the shelter.
They piled damp leaves on the fire until it smoked in a pale column drifting toward St. Lucia.
Lucy watched the smoke fade over distant peaks.
Someone there might be searching. Adrenaline lifted her chest, then dropped her harder: a search only began when someone raises the alarm.
If Adam thought she’d stayed on the other launch, no alarm.
Search parties might sleep on it until dawn.
Lucy dropped another stick onto the embers. “What time did we leave the ship?”
“Eight-thirty.” Steven rubbed his wrist, frowning as if a watch should be there. “We hit the island at nine-fifteen, lunch at noon, trail at one.”
“The launches would have reached the ship by four, right?”
“Unless they hid out somewhere.”
“They wouldn’t, without calling the ship.” Lucy spoke with false certainty—no one in ops had briefed her on marine communications. “Two launches can’t vanish.”
He stared at the smoke. “They’re coming.”
Every time she thought about Adam finding her gone—abandoned—her mind rewrote the scene. In one version he saw her absence the instant the launch nudged the marina docks and demanded the captain turn back.
In another, Karina told him Lucy had decided to catch a later boat with Steven—and Adam, pressed by Karina’s placating voice, let it stand. Lucy’s chest tightened.
She shivered. Steven crouched beside her, watching the pale horizon with sleepy eyes. A few moments passed before he spoke.
“What did Karina say when you went up to the lookout?” he asked.
Lucy’s throat felt as raw as sandpaper. “I don’t remember.” She glanced at him. His sandy hair was damp, strands plastered to his forehead, and his brow carried the crease she knew came from too little sleep and too much blame.
“I signaled to Adam that we were going up.” Lucy stared down at the branch in her hands, fingernails scrubbing bark until a drop of sap welled. “Adam nodded when I said it. I thought he understood.”
Steven chuckled, wry and brittle. “He may have thought you meant the bathrooms.”
Lucy’s eyebrows shot up. “There are no bathrooms on this island.”
“Adam seems like a guy with a stubborn faith in infrastructure.” Steven’s eyes flicked to hers, amused, but Lucy felt only dread crawling up her spine—a cold, insistent scratch.
She dropped the branch on the damp sand. “We need more wood before it gets even darker,” she said, her voice firmer than she felt. “We’ll run out of wood before morning, and it gets cold overnight.”
They slipped inland toward the tree line, keeping each other in view.
The storm’s memory was written on every leaf: slick and unwilling to be broken.
But beneath an uprooted palm she spotted more twigs tucked under the trunk’s overhang.
Shielded from the rain, the wood lay brittle and dry.
She gathered armfuls, balancing them with aching arms as if the weight might break her.
Steven worked closer to the old ranger’s path, prying a weathered board from under vines.
Lucy’s heart lurched in its cage when he wedged his hand under the rotten plank.
Then came the softest hiss—the sound of breath leaving his lips—and the dull thud as the board dropped.
She looked up in time to see him slump, one leg outstretched, the other bent at a wrong angle.
The board lay beside him, and from where it had been pried stuck a rusted metal bracket. Blood seeped from a cut above his ankle, dark and relentless, soaking through his sock. The sight yanked her attention away from the setting sun.
“Don’t move,” Lucy said, her voice catching on air. She knelt but didn’t touch him. The cut was long—several inches—but she couldn’t tell how deep. His skin around it puckered.
“Did it stay in?” she asked.
He shook his head, face paling beneath his tan. “It scraped me when the board shifted.”
His tone was under control, too calm. “Give me the first-aid kit,” he said.
“You’re the nurse. Tell me what you need.”
He winced. “Gloves, gauze, bottled water—nothing from the rain puddles.”
Lucy sprinted back to their makeshift shelter, heart pounding. Inside, she grabbed the red-cross emblazoned case, unzipped it, and returned to kneel by him. He peeled on the last pair of gloves—hands that had steadied anxious hearts in hospital hallways, now trembling slightly as his eyes met hers.
He had her pour water over the wound until the flowing stream washed away most of the old blood. Lucy’s fingertips reverberated with his pulse, strong but uneven. When the cut revealed its true shape—shallow but jagged—Steven pressed gauze against it, testing how much pressure he could handle.
“It’s shallow,” he said, voice taut. “Long, but shallow. Probably doesn’t need stitches.”
Lucy frowned. “You don’t sound convinced.”
He grimaced. “I sound like a surgeon operating on his own leg. More pressure.”
She twisted another piece of gauze and pressed it firmly. He inhaled sharply, jaw clenching, but remained still.
He paused, then lifted the gauze. Fresh blood welled slowly along the slice. “It’s ugly but not catastrophic. More pressure again.”
Lucy pressed until her arms trembled. He hissed, but let her work.
When the flow slowed, Steven cleaned the surrounding skin with antiseptic pads, then laid strips of gauze and bound them with tape. They used most of their supply, breathing hard as the last daylight slipped away.
He tested his weight, winced, then nodded. “I can walk on it.”
Lucy bent over him, voice low, fierce. “You’re not going anywhere except back to the shelter. I’ll find more wood.”
Steven gave her a wry look. “You just said we had to stay together.”
“I’m revising policy in light of new evidence.”
He limped after her as she tramped back to where she’d abandoned the pile of dry sticks.
On the way, she flailed the old board by its safer end, dumping the rusted bracket in plain view.
When they returned to the fire pit, she spread a towel under the shelter’s tarp and helped him settle, foot elevated on his backpack.
Lucy placed a few branches inside the stones, coaxing a flame fierce enough to keep smoke low in the damp air.
The first wet heat of forest and sea blended in her nostrils, and she rubbed her arms for warmth.
They shared the remaining bottled water—Lucy measured each gulp—and chewed pieces of gum to quell the dryness in their throats.
As their fingers grew chilled and lips cracked, the wind rustled through the palms. Lucy draped one towel around Steven’s shoulders and pulled the other over her knees. The emergency blanket fluttered on its post, silver and sharp, reflecting embers onto the tent’s ceiling like fireflies.
Mosquitoes swarmed, drawn to the smoke and sweat.
From the first-aid kit, Steven produced insect-repellent wipes, each barely wide enough for a forearm.
They dabbed their arms with ceremony, wincing as the solvent stung broken skin.
Lucy’s left ear twitched to one persistent whine—an insect that refused to move on.