Chapter 15
Charlotte Gallagher
Five Years Later
The wind shiftslate in the afternoon. There’s something different about it, enough to lift the fine hairs along my arms and make my skin tighten.
I rub my hands over my forearms, trying to shake off the feeling.
The air’s been heavy all day, but this feels different. Uneasy. Like something out there is shifting instead of settling.
I glance toward the water, then up at the sky, not entirely sure what I’m looking for.
Dane’s at the southern wall of the shelter, working on the section that’s been loosening since the last storm. He looks over before I say anything.
His gaze flicks over me—my arms, the sky—then back to my face.
“You sense it too,” he says.
Of course Dane’s already noticed the weather. He always picks up on things before I do.
“The wind’s coming from the south.” That’s never good.
“Yeah.”
The shelter works for most things. It keeps the sun off us during the worst heat, blocks enough wind to stay warm at night, and holds up well against light rain. Open and breathable when the air gets thick. Fine most days.
Not this.
“The shelter won’t do much.”
“I agree.” His eyes drift toward the horizon again. “We should sleep on the yacht tonight.”
I keep my arms folded for a second, holding onto the warmth while I think about it.
There was a time when sleeping on the yacht felt like something you had to prepare yourself for. Something tense and uncomfortable that we only did when we absolutely had to.
That feeling hasn’t completely disappeared, but it’s changed over the years. Blurred into an act of survival the same way everything else has.
It still doesn’t feel comfortable exactly. But it’s dry, and it’ll block the wind.
I look back toward the horizon. The light feels wrong—flatter than it should be, the clouds dragging it down. The temperature’s already starting to drop, and I can feel where it’s headed.
“The yacht, it is.”
A solid shelter in the center of the island would be better. Something built to withstand weather. But we don’t have that.
What we have is the yacht. Old, damaged, and still the safest place we’ve got when the weather starts turning.
He looks at the wall for another second before letting out a quiet breath. “No point reinforcing it now. If a real storm’s coming, it’ll probably tear straight through this place anyway.”
I glance toward the trees as another gust moves through them. “We should grab supplies and go. Enough food and water for a few days, just in case.”
He nods once.
Then we move. I grab what I usually do while Dane takes the heavier things.
The walk is short. The wind follows us the whole way, steady at our backs, cooler than it should be.
