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“No.” I stubbornly twist from side to side, trying to work my arms free so I can lift myself out of this mess.
He stands over me, watching me struggle. “Bailey, let me help.”
“No. I’ve got this.”
I decide down is better than up, and scoot my butt backward in hopes of getting a leg free.
Only now I’m folded up beneath the frame, and my ankles are caught on the bottom rung.
I close my eyes. This is too much.
A squeaky sound makes me look. Rhett is using a ratchet to loosen a bolt on the side. Suddenly, the frame breaks apart, and I’m flat on the ground.
Thank God.
I roll away from the canvas-and-metal death trap and stand up. The life jackets are starting to look better as a cushion.
I’m about to head for them to make a bed-pile, when Rhett holds out his arm. “Hey, hold up. You’re hurt.”
He takes my elbow and pulls me close. “You got cut by the chair.”
I glance down. A line of red has welled up on my upper arm.
“I’ll live.”
“Let’s not chance it. Not out here.”
He leads me back into the rain. The wetness stings the cut.
“Where are we going? There’s not exactly an urgent care down the block.”
“At least wash it off in the sink. It’s fed by rainwater. I spotted the collection tank that feeds into the main hut.”
I hold my hand up to the sky. “We have plenty of rainwater!”
Still, I follow him to the roofless building. He picks up the “Welcome, Blue Sapphire guests” sign that was strung over the entry but has fallen onto the wet sand.
He ties it to the back corner, then rehangs it sideways over the protected space made by the counters. When he’s done, we have a decent tarp protecting us from the rain in the most secure part of the hut.
I admit, I’m impressed.
He shoves aside branches and kneels before the cabinet he sat in during the storm. “Time to assess what we’ve got here. Maybe there will be some paper towels or something.”
He pulls out a box, which turns out to be packets of margarita mix that the woman used to flavor the slush. I pick one up. It’s liquid inside and already has tequila measured into it.
“Score!” I say, holding it close like a prized possession.
Rhett dives back down, returning with a large yellow bucket. He sets it on the counter and turns it around to read the label. “Dill pickles in brine.”
“Crack that baby open. I’m hungry.”
“Don’t take in too much salt. We don’t have water.”
“Spoilsport.”
He reaches around inside the cabinet and returns triumphantly with what looks like a red tackle box, the kind my dad used for his lures when fishing off the docks.
It has a big white cross on it. “First aid kit?” I ask.
