“We need a good storm,” he says, scanning the horizon, a hand over his eyes.
But it doesn’t come.
The leafy herbs die off first—mint and basil. Then the lettuce, radishes, cabbage, and broccoli—they all begin to wilt. We harvest what we can quickly, early, before we lose it all.
The strain in Clay’s face makes me uneasy. He’s always so steady, resolute, like he’s seen every hardship this island can muster, and nothing new can upend him. But this feels different. We continue to carry buckets of water to the garden, but our bodies are starting to buckle, especially in the growing heat. I usually collapse in the shade of the old elm tree that grows crooked beside the garden fence. Clay continues to work, bringing down buckets while all the other chores on the island go neglected.
Day fifteen since we last had rain, and we wade out into the ocean after a day of slogging water. My hands are blistered, forehead sun-scorched after I forgot to wear my hat for the first half of the day. We sink in up to our necks, bobbing in the warm tropical water, neither of us able to speak—too exhausted. Too afraid of what we might say.
I know our situation is getting desperate.
I dip my head back, letting my hair swirl around me. It’s gotten long, uncut in nearly ten months. Maybe I’ll ask Clay to trim the ends. Or maybe I’ll just let it grow, become wild and tangled.
“We’ll be needing to shear the sheep tomorrow,” Clay says. “This heat is too much for ’em.”
I nod, keeping my eyes on the ocean, knowing that the heat isn’t the only risk. It’s the grass that usually covers the island, now turning brittle and dry. Soon, they will have nothing to eat.
I pull myself closer to him, but still I don’t touch him. I just wantto be nearer. I just want to hear his breathing, the reassuring rhythm of every exhale.
“We’ll be okay,” he says, the setting sun in his eyes, like he knows the tension winding through my thoughts. “We’ll survive. I always do.”
I let my eyes flick closed, feeling the last of the sun against my face, the sultry warmth of the ocean against my skin.
Sometime in the middle of the night, I feel a cold ping against my temple. I’m curled on my side, the dry grass stirring softly around us, a hand pressed to Clay’s chest. There are no blankets over us, it’s too warm for that. We haven’t slept inside the house in at least a month.
I start to drift off again, when I feel another ping, and another.
A droplet of rain.
I sit up, looking out at the sea. The stars are gone from view, blotted out by clouds.
“Clay.” I touch his shoulder.
His eyes open, and the rain begins to fall in earnest now. I stand, tilting my head back to feel the drops against my face, cool and inviting. I laugh and Clay rises to his feet, bare chest to the sky. He grabs me, kisses me hard, before we begin gathering the blankets and pillows from the grass, darting for the porch as the rain picks up steam, pummeling the island.
I rush inside, but Clay stays out on the porch. I know he won’t be able to sleep now. He’ll stay up to watch the rain, to see if it continues to fall. I curl up on the couch, watching him through the open doorway until my eyes drift closed.
My sleep is calm and restful, soothed by the sound of the rain against the roof.
But when I wake, the air inside the farmhouse is anything but serene.
Wind lashes the walls, banging the exterior shutters against the windows, threatening to shatter them. I stumble from the couch, moving to the doorway. But Clay isn’t on the porch.
I call out to him. He doesn’t answer.
The sight across the island is unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. Rain is pounding against the soil, wind gusting sideways, throwing white caps against the rocks, surging high up onto the shoreline like it’s reaching for the house.
This is not a simple rainstorm. This is something else.
I want to escape back inside, but the banging shutters are too loud, and I know they will break the windows if left as they are. Barefoot, I hurry down the steps and out into the storm. I glance toward the garden, looking for Clay, but he’s not there.
A spiraling fear sinks through me. Did something happen to him? Did he get too close to the shore? Was he pulled into the sea by one of the thundering waves?
The thought is paralyzing, my mind tunneling into darkness—if something happened to him, I’d be alone. On the island.
Without him, I won’t survive. Without him, I won’t want to.
The wind shrieks, and I pull in two deep breaths, forcing the thought down. Forcing myself to move around the side of the house. I grab the loose, swinging shutters one by one and slam them closed against the windows, latching them in place. I’m soaked within minutes. I secure the three kitchen windows, and the windows at the back beside the chimney, when something whips past my head. I turn but can’t make it out before it’s swallowed up by the dark.
