Page 33 of Hate Wrecked

On Hollow Island, I can't help but steal glances at the stranded yacht, a magnetic pull drawing me toward its frame. Riley senses the unspoken desire to swim out to it again, the restless yearning for what it holds. A conflict simmers beneath the surface—practicality against the beckoning call of the ship.

As we return to our small refuge for the last time, Riley reluctantly concedes to my plan. I plunge into the water, the yacht looming larger with every stroke. Entering its depths, I salvage what I can one last time.

Returning to Riley, I see the understanding in her eyes when she sees the cooler, heavy with canned goods. Yet, it's the photo I found in the captain’s quarters, waterlogged and salt-stained, that carries a weight I know I must share. I hand it to her, let her run her fingers over the image. “It was the captain’s. I’m going to go bury it with him.”

I leave Riley to her thoughts as I venture to bury the memento with him.

Returning to Falcon Island, Riley and I become a flurry of activity, our belongings piling up as we spring into action. “I’m going to gather wood for a fire. Can you set the tent up on your own?” I ask.

She nods. “I can try.”

“Okay. I’ll be just over there. Yell if you need help.” I walk off into the trees as she eyes the rolled-up tent.

When I return with firewood, I see she hasn’t been able to set up the tent alone.

“Give that to me,” I say, reaching for one of the rods in her hand.

She gladly hands it over and steps back. Half the tent is up, but it’s not secured to the ground, so the other half is sticking in the air.

I work in silence, pushing her away when she tries to help. When it’s done, I stare at the stretch of land in the distance. The sun is going down, so we don’t have time to explore more of Falcon Island.

“Are you looking forward to sleeping in one of the buildings on this island?”

“No,” she admits. “How many bugs do you think are in them?”

“I don’t know.”

“Andarachnids. I fucking hate spiders, Rowan, you know that.”

“I do know that. But if a storm comes in, and they often do, we are going to need more than this tent. Do you want to be soaked? You slept in the bunker.”

“The bunker scared me too.”

“And you did it.”

“Because I was with you.”

FOLLOW ME

ROWAN

“So,a man lived here by himself for eight years?” Riley asks, after a much-needed night of sleep after our exhausting day of moving supplies to Falcon Island.

“Yeah. His name was Gerald Extroix. He was going to stay a year and never wanted to leave,” I reply, unzipping the tent.

“Well, he did eventually,” Riley remarks, a hint of skepticism in her voice.

“Yeah. Maybe he was lonely,” I say, reaching into the tent for our belongings.

“Would you be able to stay here for years?” she asks.

I climb halfway into the tent, retrieving my bag. “Maybe. I know you wouldn’t be able to.”

Riley crosses her arms. “What does that mean?”

I glance at her, then pull her bag out and drop it in the sand. “You couldn’t put the tent together on your own. And you wouldn’t survive out here without running water, alcohol, and other shit.”

Other shit... like the pills you took before we left.

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