30. Dane Gallagher
Dane Gallagher
A month isn’t long. Not compared to fourteen years on an island, counting everything in food, water, and whether you make it through the day.
But a month inside—watching monitors, tracking movement, waiting for something to come over the fence—drags in its own way.
I took out another drone last Tuesday just beyond the back fence. I moved without thinking. One shot, and it dropped like a stone.
I stayed there a while, watching. Waiting to see if anyone came for it.
No one did.
There’s a good chance this bites me in the arse later. But if people are flying cameras over our fence, right and wrong stopped mattering a while ago. I’m not losing sleep over playing nice.
The story we gave Grandad and Mum was simple: we didn’t talk to the media, so they made something up instead. The images are fake, generated by AI.
They took it at face value.
I understand why. The truth asks too much of them. It means looking at Charlotte and me and accepting something they’re not built to accept. It’s easier to believe the world has gone too far than to believe what we are to each other.
I don’t blame them. If I were them, I’d choose the easier version too. The trouble is, the easier path isn’t always the one you get.
We can’t stay locked inside forever. Those are Charlotte’s words, and she’s right.
She comes downstairs wearing gray trackies and a matching zip-up, her hair pulled through the back of a cap, sunglasses already on. She pauses at the bottom step, giving me a look.
“You’re still going to turn heads.”
“I look like I’m going to do the groceries.”
“You do, but you’re also beautiful. Both can be true.”
She pulls a face and grabs her bag. “Are you ready to do this?”
“No. Not even a little. But you’re right. We can’t stay inside forever.”
“We’ve got to face the public some time.”
“Yeah.” I tug my cap down. “You’ve got the list?”
She lifts her phone. “Let’s go.”
Grandad’s driver, Paul, doesn’t ask questions or make conversation. He just opens the door and gets us where we need to go. I appreciate that more than I can say.
But driver’s licenses are next on the list. I’m not relying on someone else to get us around forever.
I watch the city through the window. A month ago it was overwhelming—the noise, the movement, too many people all at once. It still is, but I’ve gotten better at pushing it into the background.
Paul pulls up at the car park entrance. We tug our caps down, keep our heads low, and head inside.
The grocery store hits all at once. It’s too much, too overwhelming, every aisle full in a way I’m still not used to. There are too many choices after years of taking whatever the island gave us that day.
Charlotte moves through it easier than I do. Years on the island taught her not to waste anything. She doesn’t pick up a single item without already knowing how it’ll be used.
“Eggs are still okay?” she says, holding up a carton, already reaching for another.
“Always.”
“You’re not sick of them?”
“I could eat them every day and not get tired of it. After everything we lived on out there, I’d still pick eggs.”
“Bacon?”
“Yes. Definitely bacon.” That’s something the island never gave us.
She drops it in the trolley and keeps going, grabbing the things we’ll need for pizza, spaghetti, and burgers.
Turns out fourteen years on an island doesn’t do much to expand your palate.
I’m halfway down the aisle when I spot them—a young bloke, early twenties, phone already up. The girl next to him is doing the same. They drift to keep us in frame while pretending to look at items on the shelves.
I know exactly what they’re doing.
I shift without breaking stride, putting myself between Charlotte and them.
“Don’t record us.”
The bloke lowers his phone, grinning. “Why not, sister-fucker? You’re walking around with her like she’s your girlfriend. It’s a public place, mate. I can film whatever I want. What are you gonna do about it?”
I know exactly what I could do.
Charlotte’s hand closes around my arm. “Don’t, Dane. Please. It’ll only make it worse.”
She’s right, but it doesn’t make it easier.
The girl steps closer, phone still raised.
“Are you really so much of a whore you’d fuck your own brother?”
“Let’s go.”
I take Charlotte’s hand and steer us toward the checkout.
“Aww,” the bloke calls after us. “Look at them holding hands, just like lovers.”
Behind us, the girl’s voice carries across the checkout, sounding delighted with herself.
“I can’t wait to put this on TikTok. This is going to blow up.”
“Easy,” the bloke says. “Absolute gold.”
I load the groceries onto the belt. The woman at the register doesn’t react. Doesn’t stare. Doesn’t linger. She scans the items and keeps moving.
I focus on that—the routine. The normality of it.
Item. Scan.
Item. Scan.
Item. Scan.
But I’m not really seeing any of it.
“Home, please, Paul,” I say once we’re back in the car.
In the back seat, I put an arm around Charlotte. She folds into me, like she’s been holding herself together until now. I press my mouth to the top of her head and don’t say anything.
The city moves past outside. She doesn’t speak the whole way home.
We get inside the house, and I shut the door behind us. She stands in the entryway for a few seconds. Then it hits.
I catch her as she folds, holding her against me. There’s nothing useful to say, so I don’t try. I just let her cry. Let her get it out. Eventually it eases, her breathing settling enough that she can pull back and wipe her face with the sleeve of her jacket.
“I hate it here.”
“I know, babe.”
“Take me back, Dane.” Her voice is wrecked. “To the island. Where Connor is. This place is awful. People are disgusting. I was happy there. We were happy.”
Something tight pulls in my chest. “I know we were.”
“I don’t understand this world. I don’t understand why they won’t leave us alone. I want to go home. Our real home.”
I take her face in my hands and wait until she looks at me.
“I’d take you back if it was safe,” I say.
“If it was somewhere we could actually live instead of just surviving one day at a time. But we were fighting to stay alive out there. Every storm. Every dry season. Every time one of us got sick.” I shake my head.
“I’m not taking you back to that. I won’t put you at risk again. ”
She closes her eyes. She knows. I can feel it in the way she settles, even though it still hurts.
Some things aren’t really requests. They’re just grief looking for somewhere to go.
After a while, we move to the couch. I sit beside her, and she pulls her knees up.
“What do we do?”
“I haven’t figured that out yet.”
She’s quiet for a moment, then—
“Would it stop if we gave them the story? Would that be enough? Would they leave us alone?”
“No.” I don’t hesitate. “I’m not letting anyone push us into handing over our lives just to get a bit of peace. That story is ours. What happened out there belongs to us. No one else.” I shake my head. “I’m not giving it away because some idiot in a grocery store thinks he’s entitled to it.”
She turns that over, quiet again. “What about—” She stops, then starts again. “What if we gave them something else? Something to look at?”
“Like what?”
“What if we were seen with other people? Dating. So the world thinks—”
“No.” The answer is immediate.
“Just listen—”
“Charlotte—”
“It wouldn’t be real. Just for the cameras. They’d see us with other people and lose interest, because there’d be no us to focus on.” She holds my gaze. “They’d get bored and move on.”
The idea feels wrong the second it forms.
Charlotte walking into a restaurant with someone else’s hand at her back.
Charlotte standing next to another man, close enough for people to fill in the rest.
Me watching from a distance, pretending it doesn’t mean anything.
“No,” I say again.
“You’d see it makes sense if you just—”
“I didn’t say it doesn’t make sense.” That’s not the problem. “I just wouldn’t be able to stand it, Charlotte. You’re my wife. I’m not watching you with another man. And I’m not going anywhere near another woman.”
“It wouldn’t mean anything. He’d be nothing to me.”
I try to meet her where she is—practical, focused on solving the problem.
On paper, it makes sense.
In reality, I can’t get there.
What comes instead is the picture of it. Her laughing at something someone else says. Someone else’s hand at her back, guiding her through a room like she belongs there with him.
Something ugly twists in my gut before I’ve even thought it through.
I’m off the couch before I’ve fully decided to move. Charlotte lets out a small, surprised squeak as I lift her over my shoulder in one clean motion. Her stomach presses against me, sunglasses and cap slipping off somewhere behind us.
“Dane, what are you—”
“Shut up.” I’m already heading for the bedroom.
“Put me down.”
“Not a chance.” My hand settles firmly across the back of her thighs, holding her there. “You want to talk about another man’s hands on you, I’ll remind you what my hands feel like.”
“Are you mad?”
I shove the bedroom door open.
“Am I mad?” I tip her off my shoulder and onto the bed. She lands on her back, breath catching, flushed, eyes bright. There’s no fear in them. Not even a hint.
“Am I mad?” A short laugh escapes me. “Yeah. I’m mad. I’m fucking furious.”
“Good. I like it when you’re mad,” she says, pushing herself up on her elbows, chin lifted, holding my gaze.
I reach down and yank one shoe off, then the other. They land somewhere behind me. My hands go straight to the waistband of her trackies, catching the fabric beneath and dragging both down her legs in one swift pull. A sharp breath leaves her, but I don’t stop.
“You like it when I’m mad, huh?” I move over her, one knee settling between hers as I push her back against the mattress. My hand catches the front of her zip-up, pulling her upright just long enough to shrug it from her shoulders. “What is it, exactly, you like about it?”
“The way all that control of yours slips.” Her voice is breathless but steady.