Page 20 of Totally Shipped
I raise an eyebrow at Killian. Keyshouldbe on dinner duty tonight as well. He clears his throat, sheepishly. “Ah, you go, Key. I got this.”
“Don’t go far,” I tell her. “Why not stick to the tree house?”
She’s happy with that and skips off.
I really am beat. “Can you make sure you save me some? I’m going to have a cat-nap.”
“No problem, macushla.” Killian comes over and kisses me on the head. “Go lie down and brew some more baby.”
Although I must be through the first trimester, I am still so tired. I spend a lot of time worrying about things like diapers, diaper cream, formula if my boobs don’t work, and probably another billion things that I don’t even know that a baby needs. I thought the second trimester was supposed to be this golden time in a pregnancy. Maybe it is if you have proper nutrition, and a bed, and, I don’t know, Netflix? Pizza? Pickles and whipped cream?
Keeping busy during the day has become so much more important. If I don’t, I wind up thinking about how disastrous this all could be.
There’s a reason I’m more than mega-worried, and I haven’t mentioned it to the guys. Before my mom had me and Brooke, she had another pregnancy. It ended in still-birth when she was seven months pregnant. Something to do with the position of her womb, or the shape of it? The baby died, and for a while, so did my mom’s heart.
What if whatever the problem was is hereditary?
There is no point sharing that information, and there is nothing to be done, so I put the weight of that particular worry squarely on my shoulders.
The guys have enough to deal with.
So…desert island diapers. Any thoughts?
REX
This morning on the island, the dawn is different.
There is a slight chill in the air, and the sky is full of clouds. It’s yet to be seen whether they’ll be burned off by the sun, or develop into rain.
I’m glad the storm shelter is now as ready and efficient as I can make it. No point storing produce that will quickly spoil, I change out the coconut pile every week. When I am up there, I climb a little higher and look across to the neighboring island. Occasionally, I see a plume of smoke from a campfire, so I know Harvey is still alive and kicking.
Whatever. I’m more concerned with dug-out supplies. I have transferred some breadfruit to a patch of loamy-soil up there. Hopefully they can grow; then we’ll have more food on hand in an emergency.
We’ve spotted more planes recently. They’ve been high up in the sky. Really high; I guess seven or eight miles up. We lit the signal fire anyway, not really expecting anything to come of it.
Nothing has.
I wonder where the rafts are, and whether they are still floating out there somewhere. Gray is working on another couple—we have a pretty endless supply of wood and time, so why not?
The clouds are darkening. I’ve been thinking about doing a cyclone drill for sometime. Seems like today could be the perfect day.
I’m good at this.
I must have been through a hundred drills in the fire service, as both squad leader and then crew boss. We practiced a lot, for all kinds of scenarios... Maybe this is different, but the mentality is the same. A natural extreme is approaching, and we need to react in an appropriate manner—or something like.
And leading these is second nature to me; I’m not someone who likes to take orders.
I look back at the shelter where everyone is still sleeping and make some calculations. The wind is picking up, and the clouds are moving this way. The amount of time to collect what we need, batten down the hatches, and get to our muster point?
Too long. Time to get this thing going.
I fucking wish I had a whistle or a gong to clang. Instead I head into the teepee and start shaking people.
I start with Gray and Leander, as they are used to jumping to my command.
“Typhoon drill, potentially not a drill. We need to assemble right now.”
Seconds later they are up and ready to act. I fucking love my guys.
