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Istill wasn’t convinced that he was real, and honestly, I didn’t even care anymore. Because when I woke up, cradled in his arms, our bodies painted pink by the sunrise over the sea, it was the first time I’d felt safe since I had been seven years old.
I lay with him for as long as I could, listening to him breathe, feeling the reassuring warmth of his skin and thump of his heart under my cheek, memorizing every line and swoop of the intricate Celtic knot he’d etched into a sheet of metal the night before, but when my bladder refused to be ignored any longer, I quietly slipped out of his embrace.
As I stood and stretched, I glanced at the man over my shoulder—both to make sure I hadn’t woken him up and simply because I could. I was no longer afraid of what I might find staring back. But perhaps I should have been. Because the moment I took in his handsome face, my hopeful heart plummeted into my empty stomach. His skin was ashen, lips dry and cracked, and the shorts tied around his waist were dotted with fresh blood.
Shite.
I flashed back to the night before—him trying to walk, him holding me up while I fell apart, him pulling my body onto his lap—and shame flooded my cheeks. He’d needed my help, but I was so fucking broken that I ended up using him to meet my own emotional needs instead. I’d managed to hurt him worse than he would have hurt himself if I’d just left him alone.
I had to make it right.
Hunger and guilt gnawed at the lining of my stomach as I tried to figure out what to do. I had no more clean clothes to dress his wounds. I was almost out of whiskey. And despite what I’d told him the day before, there weren’t enough lobsters in that inlet to feed us both for very long. The bombings and plane crashes and shipwreck must have scared them away.
It was settled then. I would go look for food and medical supplies and, God willing, a house to squat in, and once he was better …
I smiled to myself before quickly shutting down that line of thought.
One thing at a time.
I’d found him.
Now, I had to keep him alive.
I hardly felt the chill of the water or the sting of the salt as it lapped at my battered feet in the tunnel. The sun was warm on my legs. The gulls squawked as they fought over shiny objects in the water. And the ship was a meter or two away from becoming just another bad memory.
I gazed at the Eye as I relieved myself outside the cave entrance, and in another remarkable first, I realized that I hadn’t been scanning the beaches for seals.
I’d simply been taking in the view.
But as soon as I climbed on top of the tunnel, my early morning reverie was punched in the gut by the harsh truth of my new reality.
Every bag of water had been completely pummeled by the storm. The rocks inside kept them from blowing away, but the sides had collapsed, and the contents had almost completely spilled out. All that was left were a few sips caught in the corners.
As I glanced up at the sky, my mood only soured. It was blue as far as the eye could see. Buckets of water had fallen over the past three days, and all I had to show for it was a dozen wet plastic bags.
Any second thoughts I’d had about risking another trip up the cliff suddenly became irrelevant. My life expectancy in the cave—our life expectancies—had just dropped from a few weeks to a few bleeding days. Drones or no drones, I was going up.
I didn’t have a choice.
Pouring what little water remained into one bag, I took a careful sip before sealing it to carry with me. Then, I pocketed the empties and set off up the trail.
I climbed slowly, careful not to make any loud noises. Both times that I’d encountered a drone, it was after I’d screamed or cried out. I wouldn’t make that mistake again.
Most of the trail was untouched by the fire. Every rock and root and wisp of heather looked exactly the way I remembered. It felt as if I’d gone back in time—back to when I was carrying a wet net full of lobster rather than a plastic bag full of rainwater. It was comforting—the familiarity—but frightening too. That climb had always been an anxious one. I’d never known what kind of fresh hell would be waiting for me when I got home.
I still didn’t.
When the bushes turned to charred black stumps, I knew I was close to the top. I slowed down and listened this time before I crept onto the main path. I stayed low. Scanned the skies. When the coast was clear, I took a deep breath, preparing myself for what I would see when I stood up.
I was ready for it this time. The scorched earth. The green and yellow and purple hills, now drained of all life and color.
I didn’t dwell on it, and I didn’t turn right. Home was to the right, so I forged straight ahead, across the main path and up the steep rise to Howth Head Peak, the barren pinnacle of rock that overlooked the rest of the peninsula. Not even the tourists climbed to the top very often, so the path was narrow and overgrown with gorse bushes and thorny vines. They tore at my bare, already-battered legs, which shook from exertion by the time I got to the top. There was nothing in my stomach to fuel a climb from sea level to Howth Head Peak in one go, but when I finally dragged myself onto the bald stone crest, all of my physical pain disappeared, severed from my awareness by the swift stab of shock.
I stared through the numbness at a place I didn’t recognize. The valley below used to be filled with life—lush green meadows covered in cows and sheep, clusters of trees filled with birds, tightly packed houses and townhouses beyond the farmland, carved into the steep hills at odd angles, all vying for a glimpse of the sea. Now, my entire town, my entire life, lay smoking before me like a bed of hot ashes that had been left out in the rain.
I wondered how many of those piles of rubble were splattered with blood and hair and teeth, like the one I used to call home.
No. I shook my head, blinking away the images from that night. Everyone else evacuated. It’s fine. There’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s fine.
