3. Charlotte Gallagher
Charlotte Gallagher
Water laps against the rocks as I rinse the dirt from my hands.
The lagoon is calm this time of day, the surface mostly smooth except for the occasional ripple when a breeze passes over it.
This side of the island feels different. Quieter. More contained.
The reef is closer to shore here, forming a large area of water that is closed off from the open ocean. At low tide, the lagoon pulls back enough to expose smooth rock and pale sand beneath the surface.
A fisherman’s paradise.
On the north side, the ground slopes, and a thin trickle of freshwater runs through the stones before spilling into the lagoon. That’s my source.
I crouch and cup my hands beneath the narrow trickle, then splash the water across the back of my neck. It runs down between my shoulder blades, cool against my skin.
When I straighten, my shelter comes into view through the palms.
It sits back, where the ground rises just enough to stay clear of the tide. I built it against the trunk of one of the thicker trees, with a slanted frame layered in palm leaves.
The roof isn’t perfect. One side sits heavier than the other, but it holds. Nothing leaked through when the rain came two nights ago. That’s what matters.
It’s simple, but it does what I need.
There’s still a strip of brush along the edge of the grove I’ve been meaning to clear. The low branches crowd the ground near the shelter, and if the wind picks up during the next storm, they’ll scrape against the roof all night.
Better to deal with it now.
I crouch beside it and reach down. Something moves. Just a flicker in the leaves.
Before I can make sense of it, pain hits—sharp and burning—tearing across my ankle.
I jerk back with a cry, stumbling as I scramble away. For a split second I see it—small black and white bands flashing as it slithers through the leaves, gone almost as soon as it appeared.
My heart slams against my ribs as I look down. Two small punctures sit just above my heel.
I go still.
Sea snake. Has to be.
Panic follows, making my hands shake. My breathing comes too fast, too shallow.
No.
I force myself to stop.
Breathe. Stay calm. Move slowly.
I lower myself onto the fallen log, keeping my leg still as I focus on the wound. The marks don’t look like much—just small punctures already starting to redden—but the heat beneath them is building, spreading outward in a slow, pulsing burn.
My heart won’t slow, but I drag in another breath. Then another.
“Stay calm, Charlotte,” I say, trying to use the sound of my own voice to steady myself.
I grab the hem of my shirt and rip off a strip, hands clumsy, then tie it around my leg just above the bite. Not tight—just enough to slow things down. That’s what Ryan always said to do.
Think. Think. Think.
What did it look like?
I close my eyes, trying to hold onto the image. Black and white. Striped, maybe. But it happened too fast to be sure.
And that’s the problem.
I don’t know what bit me. I don’t know how bad it is. I don’t know how much time I have.
The fear creeps higher in my chest.
I swallow and push myself to my feet, careful not to move too quickly. My ankle throbs as I shift my weight, the burning spreading deeper now, tightening through my leg.
Stay calm. Move slow.
I start toward the shelter, one step at a time. Each movement sends a dull ache up my leg, my body already reacting before I fully understand what’s happening. But I keep going. By the time I reach the mat, my leg is pounding.
I lower myself beside the fire pit, keeping my injured leg stretched out in front of me. The movement sends a fresh wave of pain through my ankle. Hot. Deeper now. It spreads slowly from the bite, creeping up into my calf like heat moving under the skin.
I press my palm into the ground to steady myself and focus on my breathing.
Something isn’t right.
A wave of dizziness rolls through me, subtle at first—like the world has shifted slightly off balance. I squeeze my eyes shut, waiting for it to pass.
It doesn’t.
My hands start to shake. I clench them into fists, pressing them against my thighs, trying to force the tremor to stop.
“Stay calm, Charlotte.”
I swallow and lean back against the tree supporting the shelter. Everything feels too big all of a sudden. The trees stretch higher. The jungle presses in on all sides, dense and endless.
And for the first time since the bite, the truth settles in.
No one’s here.
No Dane. No Ryan. No one to help if this goes bad.
The island feels enormous, and I’m completely alone.
I look down at my ankle. The skin around the punctures is growing redder and swelling.
A cold realization settles in, heavier than the dizziness.
The snake was venomous.
And I’m going to die here.
Alone.
Death is quieter than I expected.
The pain is gone. I didn’t realize how bad it was until it stopped.
Everything feels… lighter.
The ground beneath me no longer presses hard against my back. The air moves softly over my skin. Even the sounds of the island seem muted, like they’ve drifted farther away.
For a moment, I just lie there, letting it happen.
I always thought death would be terrifying, but it isn’t. The fear that had its grip on me is gone, replaced by something calmer.
Just stillness.
This is what the end feels like. And dying isn’t so bad.
A quiet warmth spreads through my chest as another thought rises.
Maybe I won’t be alone.
For years, the island has been full of ghosts—Ryan’s voice carrying on the wind, Jameson’s laughter slipping into moments when I wasn’t expecting it.
Even my parents sometimes—my mum’s voice calling my name, my dad’s footsteps I still half expect to hear.
They’re small fragments that surface when I close my eyes.
They’ve been gone for so long. But maybe they aren’t gone completely. Maybe they’re somewhere waiting.
The idea slips in and is strangely soothing.
I picture Ryan first, leaning against a tree the way he used to, watching everything without needing to say much. Jameson beside him, restless as always, already impatient, like he’s been waiting too long.
I can almost see them.
Almost hear them.
And for the first time since the bite, fear fades to the background.
My breathing slows. The island fades, softening at the edges as everything drifts out of focus.
Then, somewhere beyond it all, a sound breaks through. Faint at first. Barely more than a murmur. It blends with everything else so easily I almost miss it.
The warmth around me deepens, pulling me under, my thoughts loosening even more as the world slips away.
Then the sound comes again.
A voice.
Faint. Distant. Too far away to make out.
For a second, I think it might be Ryan. My mind reaches for him automatically, the way it always does when the island goes quiet like this. But the voice doesn’t match.
It’s rougher. Lower. Closer.
The words start to separate from the blur of sound.
“…Charlotte…”
It ripples through the darkness behind my eyes. I frown, trying to focus on it. Then it comes again, clearer this time.
“Charlotte… stay with me.”
I know that voice. Even through the haze, I recognize it instantly.
Dane.
The realization drifts through slowly, but it doesn’t make sense. He isn’t here. He’s still back at his camp. So this has to be a dream.
“Don’t leave me.”
The voice is closer now, edged with something I don’t recognize.
“Charlotte, stay with me.”
A warm pressure settles against my arm, like a hand gripping my shoulder.
Impossible.
Dane would never say those things. Not to me.
He hates me.
“I can’t do this without you.”
Even now, my mind is filling in what it wants to hear.
“You don’t get to go.”
The real Dane would never say that. But dreams don’t have to make sense.
For a moment, there’s only quiet. Then I hear it again.
“Charlotte… please.”
The words linger, fragile in a way I’ve never heard from him before.
Please.
Dane has never said that to me. Not once.
Something in me pulls toward it, faint but insistent, like a thread tugging at the edge of sleep.
But the warmth is stronger.
It wraps around me again, heavy and soft, pulling me back toward the place where nothing hurts.
Maybe this is the end. If it is… it isn’t something to fear.
The darkness closes in gently.
And I let it take me.