2. Dane Gallagher
Dane Gallagher
The jungle swallows Charlotte.
One second I can hear the faint crunch of sand and dry leaves. The next, there’s nothing—just the wind in the palms and the distant crash of waves against the reef.
I’m still standing where she left me.
Charlotte has stormed off before. Not often, but enough that I know the pattern. She goes until she cools down, finds somewhere along the beach to sit, and eventually comes back once the anger burns itself out.
This isn’t any different.
A soft cluck pulls my attention to the side.
Coral pecks at the sand near the edge of the clearing, head tilting as she watches me.
“Don’t worry. She’ll be back.”
The hen lets out a quiet, unimpressed sound and goes back to scratching at the dirt.
I crouch by the fire pit and pick up the spear again. I drag the stone along the edge once, then stop. It feels pointless now.
The clearing is too quiet.
It’s not like Charlotte talks much. Most days we barely say anything beyond what we have to, but this silence feels heavier.
I glance toward the path again.
Nothing.
She didn’t take much. It can’t be enough to start over somewhere else.
And that worries me.
Charlotte’s stubborn, sure—but she’s not stupid. Once she cools off, she’ll realize disappearing into the jungle isn’t going to fix anything.
The wind shifts through the palms, rattling the woven walls of the shelter behind me. I sit there a little longer, staring toward the trees.
Waiting. Even if I don’t mean to.
But the path stays empty.
Behind me, Coral clucks again, louder this time, like she’s complaining about something.
I glance back. “Don’t look at me like that. You know Pearl’s always been her favorite.”
She fluffs her feathers and hops onto a low rock, entirely unbothered.
Everything feels wrong.
I shake it off and head toward the traps—they need checking. Might as well get it done. Better to keep moving. Stop thinking about the argument.
The first trap’s empty. The second has caught a small crab tangled in the snare. I collect it, reset the line, and move on.
By the time I circle back, the sun’s dropped lower, shadows stretching across the sand.
The clearing comes into view through the trees. For a second, I expect to see her. But the space by the fire pit is empty.
I set the crab down and glance toward the path again. Still nothing.
Charlotte’s stubborn enough to walk halfway around the island just to prove a point. She’ll get tired of it eventually. She always does.
I grab a strip of palm fiber and start tightening the weave along one side of the shelter, focusing on the pattern. Loop, pull, knot. Something I don’t have to think about.
But every few minutes, my eyes drift back to the trees. And every time, the path is still empty.
I pull the fiber tighter and lean back, scanning the tree line again.
She’s been gone longer than I expected. The thought creeps in before I can stop it.
Where exactly did she go?
The island’s big enough for someone to disappear into if they really want to. There are parts of it we haven’t visited in years—thick jungle, cliffs, low ground that floods when the rains come hard enough. Places you don’t wander into unless you know what you’re doing.
And Charlotte—
My mind starts running through the details automatically. It always does when something shifts.
Did she take enough water? Did she think about shelter? She took so little with her.
I try to picture what she packed—knife, water, a few personal things. Not much else.
Another thought slips in: what if she doesn’t know where the streams are? It lingers longer than I want it to.
My eyes drift back to the path. Still empty.
I push to my feet before my thoughts can go any further and walk across the clearing toward the narrow break in the jungle where Charlotte disappeared earlier. What exactly I’m checking, I’m not sure.
The trees close in after a few steps, the air cooler beneath the canopy. I stop near the edge where I can still see the beach behind me and the clearing through the palms.
Her trail is easy enough to follow—broken leaves, a faint disturbance in the sand where the path curves deeper into the jungle. If I kept going, I’d probably catch up to her.
I could call her name. She’d hear me and stop. I can see it now—her turning back, annoyed, still stubborn, maybe still angry—but she’d come back. The argument would burn itself out the way it always does, and everything would settle.
For a second, I almost do it. Her name sits at the back of my throat.
But something stops me. Maybe it’s pride. Maybe it’s the edge of anger still sitting under my skin. Or maybe it’s the certainty that she needs to understand what she’s doing. She said she’s been watching me. Learning.
Fine. Let her prove it.
I take one last look down the path, then turn and head back toward the shelter.
The sky over the water fades from gold to deep blue, the last light catching along the tops of the palms. I crouch by the fire pit and strike the rock, coaxing a flame from the dry fibers until it catches and steadies.
Normally, she’d be sitting across from me by now, knees pulled in, watching the fire. Tonight, that spot is empty.
I cook the crab I caught earlier, turning it over the flames until the shell splits. The smell drifts into the warm evening air, but I barely register it.
Pearl edges closer, drawn by the light, settling near the edge of the warmth.
“You’re not getting any,” I tell her, already reaching for the crab anyway.
She clucks, like she knows better.
I listen for Charlotte—for footsteps, for movement, for her. But nothing comes.
The fire burns lower as the sky darkens, the sounds of the island shifting with the night. Crickets start up in the brush. Waves break steadily along the reef.
No Charlotte.
Eventually, I stand and kick sand over the fire, smothering it.
I move into the shelter and lower myself onto the woven mat, staring up at the roof. She’ll be back. Once she cools off, she’ll realize wandering the island alone isn’t going to fix anything.
I close my eyes, but the quiet inside the shelter is wrong. For the first time since we were stranded, I’m alone.