“Hey, princess, did you hear me?”
I’m trembling, half convinced I’ve gone mad, half hopeful that my eyes aren’t telling lies.
“Would it kill you to listen to me for once?” Beck grumbles. “Grant a dying man one final request. Drink the damn water. It’s the least you can do.”
“No.” I shake my head. “Afraid I can’t do that.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because…” I hardly dare to believe my own words. “Beck… look behind you.”
He goes totally still. “Why?”
I press a hand to my stomach, but it does nothing to calm the explosion of butterflies that have just hatched inside my gut. I stare at the small patch of green and gold, growing clearer as the currents sweep us toward it. If I squint beyond the rough break of reef… I can just make out the shape of palm trees lining a white sand beach along the shore.
It’s real.
It has to be real.
“It’s… it’s an island.”
My feet hit the beach, wobbly and weak. I can barely stand upright, but I don’t care. I dig my toes into the white sand to ground myself in reality. Part of me still thinks this must be an elaborate delusion brought on by intense dehydration. But no hallucination could ever be this detailed. My brain could never dream up the crystalline sparkles on the water’s surface in the small inlet where we’ve washed ashore, the brilliant blue of the sky overhead, the riot of dense green rainforest twenty yards up the beach.
The waters here, in the shelter of the reef, are still and so clear I can see straight to the bottom. Curious fish dart in and out of the aqua shallows, lured close by the bright colors of our raft. I watch crabs scurry under rocks, their hard-shelled claws clicking like castanets. Small shorebirds gather on the jagged rocks to our left, where coral and algae grow in abundance.
We made it. We survived.
I could kiss the sand beneath my feet, but I’m afraid I might not have the strength to get back up. Plus, there’s Ian to think about. We’re so exhausted, we can’t lift him from the raft. Instead, we drag the entire vessel, Beck grabbing a handle on the right side as I grab one on the left. We both grunt with the effort as we pull it from the shallows onto solid sand. The grains slip and slide beneath my feet, so fine it’s hard to walk a straight line. The sun beats down so strongly against the white beach, my retinas are scorched by the refracted beams. I grit my teeth and keep pulling.
Before the atoll came into view, I thought I’d reached the absolute bottom of my energy stores, that one more move would land me at rock bottom. It seems I still have some unforeseen stamina left, though, because I stagger stubbornly onward, running on gasoline fumes from an empty tank. I can’t let Beck and Ian down — not now that we’ve finally found sanctuary. Or… at least some semblance of it.
Our odds of survival have to be better here on land than in the middle of the damn ocean.
We move with the alacrity of octogenarians; it takes an eternity to pull the raft a half dozen yards. By the time we come to a stop, my head is pounding, my eyes are swimming with sunspots, and my limbs are barely cooperating with executive orders. I tug a line from the raft and secure it to a fallen palm tree, embedded in the sand halfway up the beach. Tying the rope around the trunk saps the last sliver of strength from my bones. I can feel myself hovering on the precipice of unconsciousness as I stare down at Ian’s pale face, swaying on my feet. I wish I could help him but right now, a rogue gust of wind could carry me away.
At least he’s covered by the canopy and — I think — far enough from the water’s edge that he won’t float out to sea with the swells. The inlet is so calm that seems unlikely, but I’m not sure how far the tide rises here. I’m not even sure the South Pacific has tides the way we do at home.
Home.
The thought is nearly enough to break my remaining resolve. I shut it out before it cripples me completely.
There’ll be time to fall apart later. On the rescue boat. Because, surely, now that we’ve made it to land…
They’ll find us.
Someone has to find us.
I try to move toward the shade, but my body finally gives out beneath me, a paper doll folding in on itself. My knees hit the sand beside the raft, my back hits the beached driftwood trunk. For a long while — it could be minutes or hours or eons — I lay there in the sun, unable to focus on anything except the foreign sensation of solid ground beneath me for the first time in days. My body still feels like it’s moving, swells of vertigo crashing regularly through my system like the rhythmic waves that ferried us along to this atoll. I wonder vaguely how long it will take my sea legs to fade, if I’ll die of thirst before I’m able to walk straight again. I can’t summon enough energy to truly care. About water, or walking, or even the hot sun scorching down, baking me like Mom’s famous spinach-artichoke dip, the longer I lie here exposed to the elements.
“Come on.”
Beck’s voice.
I crack open one eye, but otherwise don’t respond. He’s collapsed against the tree beside me, so close I can see each individual grain of sand coating his forearms, but still not touching. His breaths are just as labored as mine, though his eyes remain razor-sharp with intensity.
“We can’t stay here.” His chapped lips form words it takes my sluggish brain far too long to piece together into thoughts. “We have to get out of the sun. Find some water.”
“Ian… We can’t just leave him here…”
“He’s covered by the canopy. And we can’t help him if we’re dead.”
He has a point.
His hand stretches toward me, each finger creating a divot in the sand. I watch with detached fascination as it comes to a stop beside mine. My eyes lift to his, wide with wonder.
“Let’s go.” His jaw locks. “Time to get up.”
My dry tongue attempts a rebuttal, but before I can say a word he closes that last shred of distance and laces our hands together. They fit like two perfect puzzle pieces. I suck in a sharp gasp of air as the sensation of his callused palm slides against mine, sandy and strong. I feel the tendons flexing in his fingers as they envelop mine, and nearly cry as I realize how much I have needed to feel human touch. How, more than water or shelter or rescue, I have longed for someone to take me into their arms and tell me it will all be okay. That I’m not alone in this nightmare.
“Together,” he whispers, hand squeezing mine tight.
“Together,” I echo.
He pulls me to my feet and supports me when I nearly stumble off balance into the sand. I stare up at his face, haloed by the sun like some angel sent down to save me, and cannot think of a single thing to say to him. I know I should drop my hand from his, should pull out of this half-embrace that’s brought inconsequential parts of our bodies into contact, but I cannot make myself do that either.