Page 35 of Dearly Departed

Letting it?

He can’t be. He’s asleep. Even if he wanted to fight off an infection through sheer force of will, he couldn’t do it when he’s unconscious.

Okay. Cabinets. Storage. Maybe, if I look in the right frame of mind, I’ll find the key to saving Jacob’s life in here.

There are a few cardboard containers of cleaning products—mostly powder stuff, like baking soda, the tops sealed with shiny duct tape. There’s an insect-repelling candle with the packaging still on. That, unlike the cans, looks like it came from a grocery store.

I would give a lot to have a grocery store on the island.

I would give even more to have a doctor.

A helicopter would be nice, too.

Everything else in the cabinet consists of two metal plates, two metal bowls, two metal cups, and two bundles of cutlery that look like they’re made from the same kind of metal. Oh—and a little tangle of metal for scrubbing the dishes.

No miracle antibiotics. No miracle ointment that says PUT ON INFECTED SCRATCHES TO SAVE YOUR HUSBAND.

I move to the third cabinet, refusing to feel any kind of sinking disappointment. If there’s nothing here, then I guess I have to rely on a miracle. We heard a loud explosion, and fire shot up into the sky. There can’t be anything left of the plane. That probably means there’s nothing left of the transmitter in the baggage compartment, either. If anyone was looking for us—if they managed to track it—they might have known the plane exploded. Would they still look for us? Or would they decide there was no hurry?

Forget the plane. I open the third cabinet, expecting more cans of food.

A shelf divides the cabinet in two. On the top section, there are more cans of food. GREEN BEANS. CARROTS. FRENCH CUT GREEN BEANS. Some paper packets, too. RICE.

“Okay. We have green beans. We have rice.”

There’s a sealed container of salt, and a similar container of sugar.

“And…sugar? For the green beans? That would probably be better on carrots.”

I sit on the floor to search the lower cupboard, my heart doing that thing where it sneaks upward until it feels wedged at the base of my throat. This can’t be my last hope. This won’t be my last hope. Even though the situation is dire, I’ll find another hope if I have to.

Maybe I have two passionate hobbies: my life with Jacob, and surviving unsurvivable situations. Is it too late in life to settle on those things? Is it too late in this hellscape honeymoon?

“No, it isn’t,” I tell myself, then bend my head to get a clear view of the cabinet’s contents.

A white metal box. A black nylon/polyester-ish zip case. A book.

I take the book out first, since it’s on top.

“Not really a book, then.” Is talking to yourself in a stressful situation a sign you’re losing your mind? I don’t feel like I am. I feel like I’m really, really scared and pretending not to notice. Or just focusing on other things. “This reminds me of elementary school.”

Because the book isn’t a traditionally bound book. It’s not a copy of The Tempest or anything. It’s a collection of laminated pages with a comb binding. When I was in third grade, we wrote and illustrated stories. The teacher made them into books like this. She laminated every page like it was something special.

Those books were bigger—full sheets of paper for every page. This one is about the size of a journal, but there’s no inspirational quote on the front. It’s the same design as the cans of food. White background. Navy lettering that says PROCEDURES.

“Procedures for what?” I flip open the cover. Where else would the answers be?

The first page has step-by-step instructions for the water pump and a diagram. Jacob was right. The water is drinkable, as long as it turns on. There’s a couple of lines about replacing a filter and a list of checkboxes with years next to them. This year’s checkbox is marked.

The second page is a black-and-white map. An island.

This island. It has to be. The name of the island isn’t anywhere on the page, but there’s just no point in having a map of a different island in the secret cabin, which is marked on the map with the tiny outline of a house. It shows the pool next to us.

There are three other markings on the map. One is an X on the beach next to a cove.

The next marking is an N near the top of the page. I guess that’s north. The cove’s north, too, then.

The last marking is closer to where the cabin is, near the center of the island.