Estelle had her back to me as she tended to Pippa’s cut. Considering I knew nothing about her, I’d already learned so much. I’d learned she didn’t have much experience dealing with children. She treated them like adults, talking soothingly but smartly, not dumbing anything down or lying when Conner asked her a brutal question about where we would sleep tonight.

For the record, the stars would be our roof. That should’ve been my job. I was a builder, for christ’s sake. But how could I create shelter when I could barely stay conscious while standing?

I hated my weakness. But I had no intention of staying that way. Tomorrow, I would be better, and I would build us a damn fort, even if my ankle continued to be a prick.

I was done being the cripple.

On top of building a fort, I’d construct a raft. I’d somehow figure out a way to build a boat to get us off this godforsaken place.

If they can’t find us...we’ll sail to find them.

Estelle also seemed to have an endless well of quiet strength and common sense. We had no medicine for Pippa’s shoulder. It would almost guarantee an infection if we didn’t stay on top of its cleanliness. But she didn’t fret outwardly, merely focused on the now.

It turned my stomach to see the sea turn pink with blood as Estelle sluiced Pippa’s wound, but I had to admit, the injury looked a lot better than it had.

The fear of a shark coming to investigate niggled me. Did they have sharks in Fiji?

Once she’d tended and done all she could, Estelle pushed Pippa to neck height in the water, telling her to stay under for ten minutes to let the salt heal. That was the only white lie she told: that the sea would take away her pain and sew her up perfectly.

But who was I to say differently? I felt better with the water cradling my break. If Estelle believed the ocean could cure everything, I wanted to believe in it, too.

Conner swam off, chasing silver fish beneath the surface.

We need to catch a few.

I was starving and thirsty. The snack before (if a few mouthfuls could be called a snack) hadn’t achieved anything.

My attention turned to the three necessities of survival.

Shelter.

Food and Water.

Health.

We had no shelter, but I’d fix that (watch me. Break or no break).

We had limited food, and soon, we’d have none.

Our health was compromised.

We would need a miracle to survive.

But how could we ask for another miracle when we’d just lived through one? We were here while three others were rotting beneath the Fijian sun. That was a miracle...right?

Tearing my eyes from Estelle (doing my best not to get hard remembering her in her underwear), I looked up the beach at the postcard-perfect view. My sodden jeans dried in the sun and our footsteps led to our sparse camp where salvaged items rested in the shade.

“What are you thinking?” Conner swam up, his arms powering through the water.

My thoughts remained morbid. How much longer would he have the strength and energy to swim and want to talk? Once he burned through his body’s reserves, would he still smile, still joke?

When I didn’t reply, Conner splashed me. “Know what I’m thinking?” He pointed at the horizon.

The empty, beautiful, cursed horizon.

No islands.

No boats.

No seaplanes.

No traffic or pollution of any kind.

“I think they’ll find us. Search and rescue have already left and will be here soon.”

Wishing so much to believe in the fairytale, I played along. “Yeah, I bet they’re just around the corner, bringing burgers and Cokes, ready to ferry us to our hotel.”

Conner’s eyes suddenly glassed over. “Even if the hotel came for us, Pip and I couldn’t check in without Mum and Dad.” His gaze switched to the island and the resting place of his parents. “Is it strange that I don’t believe they’re dead? That it doesn’t feel real.”

The sea was shallow and we both bobbed on the bottom with our arms keeping us afloat. “I get that. My mum died a few years ago.”

“Did you get over it?”

I deliberated if I should tell him what society expected. The generic ‘yes, time heals all wounds and the grief will get easier.’ But Estelle didn’t bullshit them, so I wouldn’t, either. “No, I didn’t. When it first happened, I got angry. Really angry. I did...something. I hurt my dad.” I smiled crookedly. “Don’t let that happen. I can’t tell you how to deal with the fact they’re never coming back, but I can tell you what not to do.”

“What shouldn’t I do?”

“Don’t confuse sadness for rage. And don’t take it out on those who care the most.” I hadn’t told anyone that. I hadn’t even apologised to my father for being such a screw-up.

My soul crumpled. I’d never had the balls to address what I’d done. And now, I might never have the chance to hug my dad and say I’m sorry. I’d left him when he needed me the most. Not only did he lose a wife, he also lost a son.

Twice.

I couldn’t.

I couldn’t stay in the sea any longer.

I cut through the water and dragged myself onto the sand.

I did my best to shuffle/hop with my crutch, ignoring my pain, and left the others behind.

I didn’t look back.

Chapter Seventeen

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E S T E L L E

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Life never delivers more than you can endure. Life has the sickest sense of humour.