24. Dane Gallagher
Dane Gallagher
The sand over the graves has started to sink. I notice it the second I step into the clearing.
Two weeks ago, the mounds sat higher. Ryan and I did what we could, piling the sand up, but it’s already settling back down. One of the graves near the trees has sunk enough that the driftwood marker tilts sideways.
Ryan carved their names into the wood with one of the knives.
The clearing sits just above the beach, where the palms thin out. From here, the ocean moves in slow, steady breaths. Waves slide up the sand, hiss, then pull back again.
Out past the trees, the yacht sits where it ran aground, its white hull tilted into the sand. From a distance, it almost looks normal. Like we’re still on vacation. Like someone’s about to call us up for lunch.
I know better.
The dirt shifts under my heel as I turn away. For a second, I think about fixing the markers—straightening them, making them look right again.
I don’t. It won’t change anything.
A voice carries down from the yacht.
“Hold still.”
Charlotte.
I grit my teeth without thinking.
I head down the narrow path toward the beach. The sand is already hot under my feet, even this early. By the time I reach the edge of the trees, sweat is sliding down my back.
Up close, the yacht looks worse.
One side is buried deep in the sand, the whole thing tilted just enough to throw you off balance inside. Walking through it always feels wrong, as if the floor is trying to shift beneath you.
Inside, it smells faintly of bleach. We found the bottles in the yacht’s cleaning supplies. We’ve already gone through almost two of them.
The galley used to look perfect—polished counters, chrome fixtures, everything in its place.
Now it’s been taken over.
Canned food stacked across the counter. Bottles of water lined along the wall. Kitchen knives laid out beside a toolkit Ryan dug out of storage.
Ryan stands at the counter with his notebook.
He glances up when I come in. “Did you check the traps?”
“Yeah.”
“Anything?”
“Nothing.”
His jaw tightens. He nods and writes something down.
He’s always writing lately.
Food. Water. What we’re using. What’s left.
He closes the notebook and looks over toward the bench by the window.
Charlotte sits there with Jameson’s kit spread out beside her. He’s perched next to her, watching the glucometer while she presses the lancet to his finger.
He doesn’t react.
The device beeps.
Ryan looks at her. “What’s it say?”
Charlotte pauses a second too long. Then she looks up. “It’s higher.”
No one says anything.
Jameson wipes the tiny drop of blood onto his shorts. “Can I go outside now?”
Charlotte gives him a small smile. “Sure.”
He hops off the bench and heads for the stairs. A second later, his footsteps thump up onto the deck.
She keeps her eyes on the doorway until the sound of him fades. Ryan does the same.
No one speaks until it’s quiet again.
Then Ryan looks at her. “How bad is it?”
Charlotte lets out a slow breath. “His sugar is climbing.”
His gaze drops to the insulin kit beside her. “How much do we have left?”
She picks up one of the insulin vials, turning it between her fingers. “Mum packed plenty. That’s not the problem. It’s supposed to stay refrigerated, and the fridge stopped working the first night.”
Ryan stills. “How long does it last without refrigeration?”
“I don’t know.”
He exhales, tension creeping into his shoulders. “What happens if it goes bad?”
Charlotte looks down at the vial. “It’s not if. It’s when. And when his blood sugar rises…” She pauses, steadying herself. “He’s going to get really sick.”
“He needs fresh insulin. We have to find a way off this island.”
I lean back against the counter. “Solid plan, genius. You got a boat tucked away somewhere?”
Neither of them reacts.
Charlotte looks at Ryan. “You’ve been working on the radio. You can fix it, right? You’re good with that stuff.”
Ryan shakes his head. “I’ve tried.”
Her brow tightens. “What do you mean you tried? You’re just giving up?”
He gestures to the mess spread across the table. “The radios are smashed. Wiring’s ripped out. The transmitter’s gone.” He taps the open casing. “Same with the emergency beacon.”
Charlotte frowns. “But that’s automatic. It’s supposed to send a signal if something happens.”
“Yeah.”
“So why isn’t it?”
Ryan glances at me.
I shrug. “Because the people who tried to steal the yacht made sure it wouldn’t.”
Her eyes flick back to him.
He gives a short nod. “Everything’s been wiped. Radio, satellite phone, beacon. All of it.”
I fold my arms loosely. “We’re on one of the most remote islands out here. No one’s coming—they don’t even know where to look.”
Ryan closes his notebook and drags a hand over his face, then straightens. “We can’t stay on the yacht.”
Charlotte looks up. “Why?”
He gestures around us. “Because this place is turning into an oven.”
He’s not wrong. The air barely moves. Heat sits in the walls, in the floors, in everything. Even standing still, sweat slides down my back. The cabins hold it all day and give it back at night, until everything feels damp and suffocating.
Bleach. Salt. Sweat.
It smells like all of it.
Ryan nods toward the ceiling. “There’s no airflow. The breeze barely makes it inside.”
Charlotte glances at the stairwell, like she’s picturing it. “So what—we live outside?”
Ryan shrugs. “I think we have to. We’re already tight on water, and we’re sweating more than we’re drinking.” He gestures around us. “If we stay in here, someone’s going to end up with heatstroke.”
“Jameson needs to stay hydrated,” Charlotte says. “We have to find fresh water soon.”
I shift my weight against the counter. “Right. Brilliant plan.”
Her head snaps up. “Do you ever stop? Or is being a jerk the only thing you’re contributing?”
I let out a quiet laugh. “Sorry—did I interrupt your clever escape plan?”
“At least I’m trying to come up with one,” she shoots back. “All you do is complain.”
“Yeah? Because everything’s going so well.”
Ryan exhales, sharp and short. “Enough.”
He looks between us once, then keeps going like nothing happened. “If we set something up near the trees, we’ll catch the breeze off the water. It’ll be cooler, especially at night.”
Charlotte’s already thinking ahead. “What about rain? There are tarps in the emergency lockers. And rope. We could rig something up—shelter, and a way to collect water.”
“Yeah,” he says, already shifting gears. “That’ll work.”
I hate that it’s a good idea. And I hate more that Ryan sees it too.
Two weeks ago, he was arguing with Dad about renting jet skis when we hit one of the inhabited islands on our route. Now he’s figuring out how we stay alive.
He looks at me. “You and I can clear a spot this afternoon.”
I shake my head. “So that’s it? We just ditch the yacht?”
“We’re not ditching it,” Ryan says. “We use it for supplies.”
I glance down the hallway toward the cabins. Even now, the air feels thick down there.
He has a point. But I still don’t like it.
“What about animals?”
Ryan shrugs. “Haven’t seen anything dangerous.”
“Yet.”
Charlotte looks between us, stepping in before it turns again. “Maybe we try it for a few nights. Just to see if it’s cooler.”
Ryan nods. “That’s a good plan.”
I watch him for a second—the way he carries himself now, like he already knows what comes next.
He acts a lot like Dad.
I hate that.
The second the conversation ends, Ryan gets to work.
He starts pulling everything apart—drawers, lockers, anything that might hold something useful. One by one, it all ends up in the galley. What used to be clean and untouched now looks like we’ve torn it open.
I follow him down the narrow hallway as he yanks open cabinets and starts handing things over without even looking at me.
“Take that.”
He nods toward a coil of rope. I grab it, sling it over my shoulder, and keep moving.
Before long, we’re hauling supplies down the ladder and dropping them near the trees. Knives. More rope. Two folded tarps from the emergency lockers.
Ryan digs out a box of signal flares from under a stack of life vests and tosses it to me. I catch it against my chest.
He’s already onto the next thing—another cabinet, a plastic crate full of fishing gear. The deeper we dig, the more we find. Stuff that never mattered before suddenly does. A toolbox. Extra line. Empty water bottles in the trash.
Ryan moves nonstop, carrying things down to the beach two at a time like he’s trying to empty the whole boat.
By the time the sun climbs higher, sweat is running down both our backs. The pile under the trees has turned into a mess of gear.
Charlotte stands nearby with Jameson, watching.
When I come down with another armful of rope, she steps forward. “Do you want help?”
I drop it onto the pile and wipe my hands on my shorts. “Just stay out of the way.”
Her mouth tightens. For a second, I think she might push back.
Ryan looks up from the crate he’s sorting through and shoots me a look—don’t.
I ignore it and head back up.
Inside, the heat’s worse. The air barely moves, and everything feels warm to the touch.
Ryan’s already halfway into another cabinet when I step back into the galley.
“What else?”
He nods toward the back. “Storage near the engine room.”
I don’t like the sound of that, but I follow him anyway.
Another half hour and we’ve stripped out most of what might actually keep us alive.
Ryan steps out onto the deck, the machete hanging loose in his hand, and looks toward the jungle.
Tomorrow, we’ll be going in there.
He nods toward the trees like it’s already decided. “We’ll start inland in the morning. There’s got to be fresh water somewhere.”
Up close, the jungle looks different—darker and thicker—like it’s closing in on itself.
Ryan doesn’t hesitate. I nod like I don’t either. But the thought of walking into that tomorrow sits heavy in my gut.
I just don’t say it out loud.