Page 19

CHAPTER NINETEEN

ELLIOT

Two days later...

“Nearly there,” Hank says as he sits beside the fallen tree that tried to kill us a few days ago, which we’ve been stripping for parts. His eyes are bloodshot, and his voice is a little crazed. “There are enough small branches left. We should have the third X well underway by dusk.”

My gaze flits over to the shore. “Crab!” I yelp and take off stumbling.

It’s the third one I’ve seen today, and all my senses flash to full alert when I spot it. The little white thing is scuttling down the store, and I try to quiet-run and pounce my way to it, high-stepping through the sand.

I dive, but it’s gone into the ocean before I land.

Defeated, I return to Hank. He’s bare-chested and wearing his ripped, fraying pants. I’ve just got my T-shirt on.

“Maybe if I make a spear,” I mumble.

“You know my thoughts,” Hank says. “Crab is a pipe dream. Doesn’t matter how hungry we are. They’re too fast.”

“Your doubts are just going to make it taste better when we’re sucking crab legs.”

I look back at the pile of broken branches, no seafood in my stomach today. The violets have faded away, too, all the easy-to-find patches devoured, and the birds have cleared out the berry bushes.

With an exhausted nod, I grab a branch, and Hank does the same. Each dragging a heavy load behind us, shedding twigs along the way, Hank and I walk down the beach with our arms around each other for support. Stumble after stumble.

The days and nights are adding up. I’m losing track of time. But Hank and I each still have this purpose, survival, that keeps us going.

Our bodies are linked. We hump and grope in the night, feed each other during the day.

We’re in this together, fighting to stay alive.

I’ve never been as present anywhere as I am here on this island, where every taste of food is epic.

Things as normal as the cloud pattern have become life-or-death, and the only relief comes when we grind against each other.

Dizzy and needing to rub my aching feet, I request a break. Hank dips his head in the water and washes his beard, and we both gather up more seaweed, which we process and eat wearily. Before continuing on our way, he gives me a quick foot massage, gentle on my bruises.

When I look out over the water, I see the fuzzy shape of the other island in the distance. “I know a raft is a risky idea,” I say, “but if we can see the other island from here, it must be close.”

“Hard to accurately estimate,” Hank says. “And neither of us knows the first thing about building a raft.”

I look at the branches we’re hauling. “We’re such a good team, though. Raft-making is definitely within our capacities.”

Hank considers me as he stands back up. “There’s no chance in hell that I’m braving the ocean on a raft, but if you want to pull some wood aside and try to make one here in the cove, go for it. I’m not going to try and stop you.”

I smile as I stand to join him. “Challenge accepted.”

We go back to dragging sticks.

“Tell me about your family’s bookstore,” I ask, seeking a distraction as my muscles burn. “You must have loved it there, right?”

“The bookstore,” Hank says as he hefts his branch over a rock. “Let’s see. When I was a kid, it was magical. Mainly used books, but some new. There were two big red armchairs in the back, and my sister and I would plop our butts down and read all day, her sci-fi and me fantasy.”

“Sounds cozy.”

“It was. And it nearly paid the bills. But it was the nineties, and the internet and big chains came along.” He shakes his head. “The best story I can think of is the year my dad gave my mom a surprise birthday party at the store.”

“What happened?”

I can’t imagine my family surprising each other, at least not with something loving.

“He recruited his friends to help move all the bookshelves aside. The shop was one big open room, and he made it into a disco flashback, 70s style. Everyone found vintage suits and dresses, they hired a DJ, and went all out.”

“Fun!”

“Except my sister and I decided we were going to surprise everyone by motorizing the disco ball. We were twelve, and she instigated, but we were both quite confident in the contraption we put together.”

“Don’t tell me it crashed on the party.”

“Only after catching fire,” Hank says. “But my mom grabbed the extinguisher on a disco-spin, and her quick save became legendary.”

“A disco inferno?”

Hank snorts. “If you can believe it, ‘Staying Alive’ was on the stereo.”

I grin. “I love it. Assuming this story of exploding inventions isn’t only an invention itself, meant to dissuade me from attempting raft construction.”

“I’d never lie to you. And if you make a raft that somehow bursts into flames, I will be impressed.” He smiles. “What about you? What was your favorite place as a kid?

“The art classroom,” I answer immediately. “Doesn’t matter which one. Whatever school I was at, the art classroom was my happy space. Total escape into imagination. And I lucked out with a string of great teachers.”

“You’ve always been an artist.” Hank looks pleased by that, which I like.

“I have. And in high school, you could sneak out the art room window if you wanted to skip class, so it was an actual escape sometimes, too.” Hank laughs, and a deep, honking, rumbly noise sounds out from down the beach. “What is that?” I ask, turning to the expert.

Hank furrows his brow. “I’m not sure. It can’t be…” He quickens his pace, although he’s unsteady on his feet. “Maybe it was the wind.”

The strange sound calls out louder, groaning steadily. “Is that a motor?” I ask excitedly, and it roars. “Oh my god, it’s a motor!”

I drop the branch and start running forward, stumbling and wobbling, summoning my remaining weak energy.

“It’s probably the speedboat again! Maybe coming from the other island. We’re saved” I yell.

“I don’t know!” Hank yells, but he’s running after me.

Panting and gulping, we make our way over the rocks, and when we round a bend, Hank falls to his knees.

Right in the middle of our crushed and scattered signals, five or six massive, blubbery animals roll from side to side and honk at each other. They’re sea lions or something, dark gray, and each has a long, floppy nose, like a Muppet.

“What the hell?” I ask.

“Elephant Seals,” Hank says, incredulous. “Northern Elephant Seals. Two-ton, aggressive Northern Elephant Seals.”

He starts laughing to himself. When one of the seals barks in our direction, squawking at us, his laugh breaks into a giggle.

Uncertain, I raise an eyebrow at him. “Can we work around them, or do we have to wait until they leave?”

Hank sits on a rock in his dirty boxer briefs, hands on his stomach while he laughs.

“You don’t understand,” he says. “I told you we might see something like this, but the Northern Elephant Seals didn’t even come this far north until a few years ago.

There’s only a handful that even do this in the Salish Sea. ”

“Do what? Come to shore?”

“They must have mated here months ago,” he says. “Their weanlings must have been here all along.”

“Weanlings?”

He snorts out a bigger laugh. “Weanlings! We didn’t see the weanlings!”

I’m laughing, too, but it’s a concerned chuckle. He looks like a mad scientist cracking.

“They’re molting,” he says. “It’s called a catastrophic molt. They stay out of the water long enough for their body temperature to rise and all the blood to move to the surface. Then they shed their top layer of skin.”

“Okay, low-key yuck, no offense to the seals. How long until we can get back to the signals?”

“If memory serves, about a month,” Hank giggles. “It takes the elephant seal one month to molt.”

I plop down beside him. “Shit,” I say and take his hand.

“Shit,” Hank agrees, and finally stops laughing as seals bellow on the beach.