Page 9 of Rainse
“Slowly,” he murmured. “You breathe too fast.”
“I’m fine,” I lied, trying to pull away. His hand lingered a moment longer before he let go.
He crouched in front of me, so close I could see the faint veins running through the green growths along his shoulders. They weren’t kelp after all. They were part of him, moving gently with his breath, alive.
“You need food,” he said. “I will find some.”
“Wait,” I blurted. “You’re leaving?”
“Not far.” His eyes lifted to the horizon again. “You will see me.”
And before I could say another word, he rose and walked straight into the surf. The water welcomed him like a long-lost friend, curling around his legs before swallowing him whole. One blink, and he was gone.
You will see me. As if.
I sat there, clutching the seaweed to my chest, staring at the place where he’d disappeared. A gull cried somewhere above me. The tide sighed against the rocks. Apart from that, nothing. It was utterly quiet.
I looked down at my hands, still trembling. The sunlight glinted on the faint pattern of salt crystals drying on my skin. I should be making a plan—exploring the island, searching for fresh water, building a signal fire. I should be doing something.
Instead, I sat perfectly still, the weight of the kelp heavy on my shoulders, and listened for the sound of the waves breaking differently—proof that he was still there, somewhere under the surface.
He said I was safe.
But safe and trapped felt far too similar.
The moment he disappeared beneath the waves, I was moving.
I didn't have much time. He'd said he wouldn't go far, but "not far" for someone who could breathe underwater might mean half an hour. Maybe more.
I needed to make the most of it.
First: inventory. I still had my life jacket, torn but functional. My clothes were drying on the rocks. No phone—that had gone down with the RIB. No flares. No radio. Nothing useful except my own brain.
Second: options. I could try to signal passing ships, but I hadn't seen any vessels since we'd been stranded. I could attempt to swim to another island, but I had no idea which direction to go, and my ribs protested even the thought of it. I could build a signal fire, but?—
I looked around. There were a few pieces of driftwood that looked dry, but if I arranged them into a heap, he’d know immediately what I'd tried to do.
But did I care?
I grabbed the largest pieces and hauled them to the highest point on the island—all of three meters above sea level. My ribs screamed. I ignored them.
Fire. I needed fire. But I had no matches, no lighter, no way to create a spark. The sun was high and bright—could I use my reading glasses? Except I'd left those in my cabin on the Minerva, useless as everything else.
"Think, Verity."
Glass. I needed glass. Or something reflective.
The coconut shell—could I use that? No, too curved. The shells scattered on the beach? Too small.
I stood there, breathing hard, staring at my pathetic pile of wood, and felt frustration well up in my throat.
I was a marine biologist with a PhD. I'd survived research expeditions in the Arctic. I'd published papers, secured grants, managed teams. And now I couldn't even start a fire on a deserted island.
A shadow passed over the sun. I looked up to see a frigate bird circling high above, riding the thermals.
Ships. They sometimes followed ships.
I ran back to the beach, searching the horizon. Nothing. Just endless blue in every direction.
