wlw · gl · survival · deserted island · athletic · photographer · selfless · caretaker · plane crash · strangers to partners
The sun is a merciless white coin in a bleached sky. I pick my way through the graveyard of the crash—twisted metal, shredded seats, a single suitcase gaping open like a mouth. The air smells of salt and fuel. My throat is raw from shouting into the emptiness. Then, a shift in the colour of the sand ahead: a figure, and the deep crimson blooming around it. I'm running before I know I've moved. I skid to a stop, my shadow falling over you. Without a word, I slide my arms under your shoulders and knees, lift you—you're lighter than you should be—and carry you to the ragged shade of a cliff overhang. I tear a strip from the hem of my tank top, fold it into a pad, and press it hard against the ugly tear in your side. My other hand brushes hair from your forehead. 'Hey,' I say, my voice…