Galloway’s cheeks were gaunt but that was from agony as much as the lack of food. His facial hair grew thicker every day, the same chocolate brown as his head.
My hipbones steadily made themselves known and the broken ribs I kept strapped slowly protruded from my flesh.
We needed to fish. To learn what other food we could find. We needed to think long-term, rather than pin our hopes on a fantasy of rescue.
As the sun slowly set on yet another day, we shared the collected water like we did every night, and settled in to rest. Once darkness fell, there wasn’t much to do apart from sit around the fire and talk.
But tonight, we couldn’t even do that.
We didn’t have the energy to form conversation.
Galloway curled up in his bed, finally succumbing to his body’s need to heal and his incorrigible mood. The children decided to dig a bed together, falling asleep in each other’s arms. And I stared sleeplessly, long after they’d left me for dreams.
Ever since we’d put up the memorial cross and given the children the bracelet and pen, they’d been closer. Less argumentative and more compassionate. They’d grown up faster in a few days than in years of their happy childhood.
Unable to lie still, I pulled out my cell-phone. I kept it hidden as I couldn’t stomach the looks of despair whenever anyone looked at it. The screen came to life, bright in the dark, fully charged thanks to my solar charger.
I tried again to find rescue. Scanning and searching for any hope of connection. I dialled the emergency number in all its variations, listening for anything but the empty silence of unsuccessful outreach.
Silent tears cascaded down my face. Sniffing quietly, I brought up the calendar app and rubbed the sudden ache in my chest.
Yesterday, I had a lunch date with Madeline.
The day before, I had a vet appointment for Shovel-Face and his yearly check-up.
Next week, I had a Skype conference with my agent to discuss the songs I’d agreed to pen and perform for my producer.
A life waiting for me to return.
A life thinking I was dead.
I can’t look at it anymore.
Closing the app, I switched on the camera. I didn’t dare flick through the gallery and torture myself with pictures of the trip in the USA, of funny faces with Madi, and landscape panoramas of the crowds who’d come to hear me sing.
I merely opened the camera, switched it to night mode, and stood.
Silently, I catalogued our beach. I imprisoned heart-splintering pictures of Conner and Pippa sleeping back to back. I guiltily snapped images of Galloway, slumbering with a frown permanently on his face.
I took photos of the moon.
Of the sea.
Of the beach.
Of shells.
And a selfie of me with the campsite behind.
I liked to think I took it so I had evidence when we were found. A picture to discuss with Madeline when she begged for tales of my castaway days.
But the truth was, I took it to monitor how I fared over the next few months.
I took it knowing full well that if we didn’t eat better, drink more, and figure out a way to survive, the selfies would slowly show a young music-writer with hazel eyes and long blonde hair turn into a haggard, skeletal woman walking quickly into her grave.
I didn’t want that.
I won’t let that happen.
I had Galloway and the children to fight for.
We would find a way.
We have no choice.
Chapter Twenty-Six
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G A L L O W A Y
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DAY SIXTEEN
I WOKE UP drowning.
My muscles hauled me into a sitting position; I opened my eyes to a bloody miracle. “Estelle!”
Estelle flew upright, her eyes wide and unfocused from sleep. Understanding registered instantly, and the brightest smile I’d seen in days spread across her lips. “Oh, my God!”
“Get whatever you can.” I hurried upright, wincing against my break.
Conner and Pippa sprang to their feet, dancing in the phenomenon.
Rain.
Delicious, precious, drinkable rain.
Fat raindrops exploded on our skin, washing away the salt for the first time in weeks.
“Yay!” Pippa squealed, holding her face to the sky. Her tongue flicked over her chin, slurping as fast as she could. “More! More!”
Conner whirled around with his arms spread. “Yes!”
Estelle bolted to the forest edge where we kept our clothes and belongings. We still hadn’t built a shelter. We hadn’t needed to. The fire kept away most of the bugs and chilly nights and the sky had been dry up till now.
It’d been a blessing not to have to build and struggle with my broken limb. But now, we paid the price as everything we owned was drenched.
The sand pockmarked with raindrops, slowly darkening the harder it fell.
The fire hissed and spat, fighting to keep burning.
Part of me wanted to protect it. To cover the blaze so it didn’t go out. But we had my glasses. We had the sun. We could rebuild it.
“Grab whatever you can and store as much as possible.” I looked for items of use. We’d already dug holes and lined them with deflated life-jackets. We’d been prepared for this for weeks.
Estelle flew past with the three bottles we drained every night, planting them securely in the sand.
Conner dragged a piece of fuselage that would eventually lose its contents as it had no sides, but as a quick gatherer to drink from, it would do.
Pippa grabbed the pot we used to boil clams, tipped out the seawater, and held it in her skinny arms to the sky. “Fill it up. Faster!”