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When the wad is clearly starting to burn, he nestles it into a clump of tiny branches. We watch it, praying it won’t go out. The light is fading fast.
A stick catches, then another.
“Quickly, let’s cover it with more loose sticks,” he says.
I break off dozens of twigs, spreading them over the branches.
“Did you find thicker ones?” he asks.
I nod and push several closer to him. It’s getting hard to see them. “Should we use my phone?”
“We’re all right. We’ll have good light in a minute.” He establishes the boundaries of the fire with the bigger limbs, pulling off the damp outer bark of some of them.
Smoke shows up as gray against the night. The smell of burning wood replaces the tang of the ocean.
The fire makes me feel better.
“Is the metal bowl empty?” Rhett asks.
“You want me to make another round?” He’s definitely not being boss Rhett now. My tongue feels loose, and I will my brain not to accidentally call him Mr. Juicy.
“Maybe put some pickle brine in it,” he says. “Then we can cook the oysters. It’s metal, so it will work well on the fire.”
“Oysters in pickle brine. We could start a cookbook for stranded castaways.” I head into the shed to dunk a cup in the pickle bucket.
As I walk away, he chuckles. Huh! He’s laughing!
When the fire is blazing, we pour pickle brine into the bowl and lay the last oysters inside.
Rhett nestles the bowl on the fire.
“How are we going to take it off when it’s hot?” I ask.
He turns to pick up a metal-handled mop. “I’ll scoot it off with this.”
“You’ve thought of everything.” I spot a beach towel flapping in the shadows and retrieve it from a twisted lounger. It’s dry.
I spread it on the ground. “Now we can sit on something that isn’t sand.”
Rhett grunts. “We probably won’t get much sleep.”
Even as he says it, though, I feel the pull of exhaustion taking over. The confrontations, the sun, the storm. It’s been a lot.
The towel isn’t big enough for two unless we’re seated, but I curl into a tight ball, my head by Rhett’s thigh, my feet in the sand.
The flickering light of the fire and the sizzle of the oysters in the juice lull me to sleep.
22
RHETT
It’s something, watching Bailey sleep.
I think of campfires as a kid, eating s’mores and crashing after the sugar rush on sleeping bags encircling the pit.
Our family was outdoorsy. We pitched a lot of tents and spent many nights under the stars. We lived in upstate New York, where it’s prime camping during the warm months, as long as you avoid the ticks.
My parents live in Colorado now, on a plot of land next to my younger brother Axel. He made outdoor life his vocation.
