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“I don’t like it,” Dan said. “I don’t like it at all. He’s taking his side. Did you hear him last night? He wouldn’t listen to my point at all. Just kept defending Conor.”
I realized, with a sinking feeling, that he was talking about Joel.
“Dan, that’s not fair,” I began, but Dan was in no mood to listen.
“What’s not fair,” he spat, “is that fucker hoarding all our food and water, and Joel backing him up. If he’d taken our side…”
Ugh. There it was. Our side. Them and us. The rifts were becoming irreparable.
“I don’t think he was trying to take anyone’s side,” I said desperately. “He was trying to be fair to everyone. Look”—as I saw Dan was about to explode again—“I take your point, I do. And I’m not saying I disagree. I feel bloody uncomfortable about the whole thing—about Conor, about Zana, about the food—everything. But we have to live with each other for the foreseeable future. We can’t afford to tear this island in half.”
“May I remind you,” Angel said stiffly, her accent as French as I had ever heard, “that Conor killed my boyfriend? Fuck his stupid YouTube videos. He is a murderer.”
I shut my eyes, gritted my teeth. It was true—and I couldn’t deny it to Angel’s face. Conor had killed Bayer. There was no two ways about it. But murderer felt like a stretch. Because it was also true that Bayer had picked the fight, and Bayer had swung first. In a court of law… well, I would have put even odds on Conor getting off on self-defense. But we weren’t in a court of law. We were a long way from any kind of justice at all. And we had all stood by and watched Conor beat a man to death.
“Look, there’s nothing we can do about it tonight,” Santana said. “And as far as we know, Joel is still sleeping here, so please, let’s try not to pick another fight when he gets here. Our issue is with Conor, not Joel. And definitely not Zana.”
Angel nodded. Dan merely looked mutinous.
We were almost at the clearing for the villa and Santana said, with the air of trying to change the subject, “Enough of that anyway. Angel, where do you want to sleep? Do you want the bed with me?”
“Don’t you and Dan want the bed?” Angel asked, looking puzzled, and I realized—she still didn’t know. Dan gave a laugh, a slightly bitter one.
“Haven’t you heard? I bat for the other team. No one was supposed to know, but I don’t suppose it matters now. Gay or straight, we’ll all be dead before the boat gets here.”
“Dan—” Santana broke in, and he turned to her.
“What? It’s true. There’s no point in kidding ourselves. If we were going to be rescued, we would have been by now. The boat isn’t coming. It’s probably at the bottom of the Indian Ocean, and no one knows we’re here.”
“Dan, we’ve been here for—” I stopped, realizing I wasn’t sure, and mentally counted. “Nine… ten days, maybe? That’s all. We have enough water for at least two or three more weeks. Nearly a month. A lot could happen in a month. I mean, what about the septic tank? Presumably someone has to come past to empty it. Or to service the desalination plant. Someone will come. I’m sure of it. We just have to hang in there.”
We had reached the villa now, and Santana opened the door. It was dark inside of course, as it had been every night since the storm, but there was a full moon illuminating the clearing, and Santana waved a hand around the room, from my mattress wedged in the corner next to the bathroom, to the big double bed she had been sharing with Dan, to Joel’s mattress on the far side, next to the veranda.
“Here we are. Home sweet home. If you want your own space, we could probably fit a third mattress at the foot of the bed, or if you don’t fancy dragging a king-size all the way from Palm Tree Rest, I could kick Dan out and you could double up with me.”
“Or me,” I volunteered. “I don’t need a double all to myself.”
“I will share with Lyla for tonight,” Angel said decisively. “I’m sure Dan doesn’t want to share with Joel.”
We all exchanged glances. It was a good point, although the subtext was… unless Joel didn’t come back. Maybe he was Team Conor now.
“Okay,” Santana said. “And then tomorrow we can figure out if there’s space for a third mattress.”
We all nodded, and Santana began moving belongings around to give Angel and me a little more space. She was just pushing the little fridge farther back against the wall, when she stopped.
“Huh. That’s weird.”
“What’s weird?” I asked, but Santana didn’t answer. She had dropped to her knees and was peering inside the little fridge. Then she yanked it out from the wall and put both hands inside, feeling around. When she stood up, I could see, even in the moonlight, her face was pale and stricken.
“Dan, Lyla, did either of you touch my insulin?”
“Your insulin?” I was puzzled. “No, of course not.”
“Me either,” Dan said. “How come?”
“Because it’s… it’s not there.” I could tell she was trying to stay calm, but there was a tremble in her voice that belied her level tone.
“It’s not there?” Dan sprang across the room, picking the fridge up and tilting it as if he didn’t believe Santana, but of course she was right—all that fell out was a metal shelf. Dan swore and threw the fridge down, causing Angel to wince, and Santana to protest.
