“You’re not getting any,” I tell her, already reaching for the crab anyway.
She clucks, like she knows better.
I listen for Charlotte—for footsteps, for movement, for her. But nothing comes.
The fire burns lower as the sky darkens, the sounds of the island shifting with the night. Crickets start up in the brush. Waves break steadily along the reef.
No Charlotte.
Eventually, I stand and kick sand over the fire, smothering it.
I move into the shelter and lower myself onto the woven mat, staring up at the roof. She’ll be back. Once she cools off, she’ll realize wandering the island alone isn’t going to fix anything.
I close my eyes, but the quiet inside the shelter is wrong. For the first time since we were stranded, I’m alone.
Chapter 3
Charlotte Gallagher
Water lapsagainst 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.
