Page 18 of Restoration
Edmund cups some in his hand and tastes it. “It’s fresh.”
“It could be full of bacteria.”
“Yeah. I suppose so. But as it’s our only freshwater source, if we’re going to die from it, we might as well go ahead and die now.”
I shake my head at his tone, but he’s right. We don’t have any real choice here. We can’t even boil it to kill any germs because we have no pot to heat it up in.
So we drink it in our cupped palms and rinse the sand and salt from our hands and faces. I feel better afterward.
“We need something to carry it in,” I say.
“Yeah. When we find our coconuts, we can make bowls out of them.”
I giggle. I can’t help it. He’s absolutely imperturbable. “For now I guess we can make some sort of shelter nearby so we’re close enough to use our hands.”
“I hope you’re not expecting me to chop down trees with my bare hands and construct you a house.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” I sigh and try to think. I’ve always tried to be prepared for every eventuality, but never in my wildest dreams would I be marooned on a deserted island. “Do you think we can drag that piece of the boat farther up the beach? We could clear it out and use that as a shelter. It’s already constructed, and the part that’s not damaged should be waterproof.”
Edmund focuses on the large, heavy chunk of wreckage. Then he shrugs. “I guess we can try.”
***
DRAGGING THE BIG PIECEof the hull up the beach over loose sand is a massive feat.
It’s too heavy for us to pick up and carry, and it takes several tries until we both get in an advantageous position for moving it—we try both pulling, then both pushing, then me pushing and him pulling, then finally in reverse—before we make any headway at all.
Edmund is strong and in very good shape, and I’m no frail weakling. But it still takes an enormous exertion for both of us and is slow going even without counting the breaks we have to take to catch our breath.
We’ve been dragging it at an angle to get closer to our only source of water. Ideally, it should be right next to the spot where the stream runs out into the sand. When I suggest we shift our route to more of an angle, Edmund groans in frustration and pushes so hard I almost lose my balance.
“Hey!” I’ve stumbled slightly and lost my grip, but I don’t actually fall down.
“Sorry.”
“If you want to do this yourself, you’re more than welcome. But if we’re working together, you could at least try to consider me.”
“I consider you plenty,” he mutters, clearly in as grumpy a mood as I am at the moment. He’s flushed and breathing heavily and is slightly damp from perspiration.
Naturally, he still manages to look hot, whereas I am dripping with sweat and no doubt as red as a beet.
“You’re not considering me at all if you almost plowed over me with this thing.”
“I didn’t plow over you.”
“I saidalmost!” I lean over farther to get a better grip and then say, “Okay. I’m ready.”
We start moving again with the same agonizing slowness. There’s a big furrow in the sand from where we’ve dragged it so far and a much longer distance left to traverse until we’ve reached the level, shady spot I’ve identified as our end point.
He’s grunting with every step. It’s a rough, primitive sound that soon starts getting on my nerves.
Finally I burst out, “Do you have to sound like you’re passing a kidney stone!”
He stops moving. Straightens up. Stares at me in surprise.
“All that grunting,” I explain, trying not to gasp with every syllable. “Why do men always have to make any effort sound like it’s the hardest thing anyone has ever done?”
“Would you like to get back here and do what I’m doing?” He’s every bit as bad-tempered as I am or there wouldn’t be that bite in his tone. He’s usually so low-key and nonconfrontational about everything that it’s almost surprising.