“Aye.”
His eyes are trained on the ocean.
“We could go back to the beach tomorrow, see what else we can find. I think the island is much larger than what we can see from here.”
Clay stands up, holds a hand down to me. I take it.
I expect him to tell me that it’s unsafe, that we better stay on the island.
But he says, “Okay. We’ll go back.”
“There’s a chicken!” I shout. We’ve barely stepped onto the beach after crossing the bay on our raft. Clay constructed two oars from splintered fragments of wood he found among the wreckage, and we used them to paddle ourselves across the perfect blue water. From the raft, we could see countless fish skittering through the shallow water below us. If we could make a net, we might be able to easily scoop them up.
But now, on shore, I point to the tree line—where I saw the chicken dash back into the thicket.
“It could be one of ours,” I say.
Clay smiles. “Might be.”
We drag the raft up onto the sand, then start toward the jungle. I catch sight of it again, scurrying under a leafy fern, then it takes flight briefly, clumsily fluttering through the dense green.
Yesterday I was wary of the jungle, but now I crash after it, desperate. The chicken means fresh eggs—survival. And if we can find one alive, maybe there are others.
We cut even deeper into the jungle, ducking beneath tangled vines and wide, lacework spiderwebs stretched between trees. “There!” I whisper, slowing my pace. At last, we step into a partial clearing where the chicken has stopped to peck at the ground—as if it’s forgotten that it’s being pursued. A second one appears, a little farther off. I’m certain they’re ours. They are plump, fattened, and the color of flecked mud, not the wiry exotic fowl I’d expect to see on a deserted island.
But there is something else in the clearing: banana trees, large leafy tops bending in the soft wind. Most of the fruit is still green, but as I move toward them, it’s Clay who grabs my hand, stopping me.
“They’re in rows,” he says. “They’ve been planted.”
Planted. By human hands.
My heart starts to pound, and Clay lifts his eyes, peering beyond the banana trees and the clearing.
I follow his gaze.
A roofline.
A building—large, towering—just on the other side of the clearing.
In movies, when the castaways wash ashore on a remote tropical island, it’s always uninhabited. A small spit of sandy beach with barely enough to survive. A place that seems like paradise, except for the lack of fresh water and the searing, unrelenting sun.
I never expected we’d see a structure, civilization, on this island.
We abandon the chickens—they seem content in the clearing,pecking at seeds and insects—so we cross the open space, moving toward the structure.
At the tree line, Clay slows, listening, but there are no obvious sounds of human voices. No ambient noise of engines or playing children, dogs, or laughter, or doors being slammed shut.
Only silence.
Clay’s eyes fall to me, his mouth an uncertain line. And I know what he’s trying to hide. The worry caught in the creases of his forehead.
If we’ve found civilization, if there is a town, a fishing village, and a working phone or internet… What will it mean?
Will I be tempted by the real world?
Will I feel some old, dormant ache inside me, resurfacing?
But I’m only thinking of one thing: If we could find a phone, I could call Nana, tell her I’m okay—I’m still alive. But I’m not coming home.
