CHAPTER ONE
If You’re Still Listening
I wake up with my face in sand that tastes like old coins and regret. The taste sits there, metallic and stale, like it’s been waiting. My tongue feels swollen, too big for my mouth, pressing against my teeth in a way that makes me aware of every edge. My shoulder is on fire. Not metaphorically. Not poetically. Just burning, hot and loud, like it’s been trying to get my attention for a while and finally decided to escalate. There’s a ringing in my ears that sounds like applause from very far away, distant and enthusiastic, which feels rude, honestly, considering the circumstances and my general lack of performance.
I roll onto my back and the sun slaps me straight in the eyes. Bright. Immediate. Personal. Like it’s offended I’m still here and wants me to know it noticed.
“That’s enough,” I say out loud, to no one in particular, because there is no one.
The sun does not listen.
I blink a few times, slow and deliberate, until the world settles into parts I can name without effort. Sky. Blue, excessive, doing the most. Palm trees, a little crooked, like they weren’t paying attention when they grew and no one corrected them later. Ocean. Close enough to touch, far enough to feel like a threat if it changed its mind. Me. Salted. Scraped. Breathing.
Breathing counts. I check again, just to be sure.
I lie there for a minute. Maybe two. I don’t check the time because I don’t have a watch and because knowing wouldn’t help. Knowing rarely does. I take inventory instead, the way you do when you don’t want surprises. Shoulder. Ribs. Knee. Head. Everything else files a formal complaint a few seconds later, late to the meeting but clearly invested. Nothing feels broken in the dramatic way people mean when they say broken. Nothing sticks out at an angle that would require immediate screaming. Nothing looks wrong enough to argue with. That feels promising. Or at least survivable.
I sit up too fast and the beach tilts like it’s trying to throw me back into the sea, like we’re not done yet.
“No,” I tell it. “You already had your turn.”
The beach ignores me. The ringing in my ears fades into something softer, less insistent, like the echo of a bad idea finally giving up and leaving the room. I dig my fingers into the sand to keep myself upright. It’s warm. Dry. Real. It doesn’t move out from under me, which I appreciate.
Okay.
I look behind me first, because that’s where answers usually are, or at least evidence. Just sand and trees and more sand, rising gently, like the island is pretending not to watch me do this. No smoke. No wreckage. No people. No shouting. No voices calling my name or anyone else’s. Nothing that suggests this was a shared experience.
I turn back to the ocean.
It looks back, which I don’t appreciate at all.
The water is calm in that specific way that feels intentional. Blue folding into itself. Sunlight skating along the surface like it’s practicing for something important later. There’s no sign of a ferry. No lifeboats. No floating reminders of other humans who might currently be having a worse morning than I am and would like to compare notes.
I wait for panic.
I assume it’s just around the corner, tying its shoes.
It doesn’t show.
Instead, there’s a thought. Clear. Uninvited. It arrives fully formed, like it didn’t need me for the trip.
Well.
I don’t like that this is my first thought, but there it is. I let it sit. I don’t argue with it. Arguing feels like effort, and I’m not there yet.
I dig my heels into the sand and push myself up, slow enough that the horizon doesn’t lurch again. My balance wobbles, considers leaving, then decides against it. My shadow stretches out wrong in front of me, longer than it should be, like it’s already tired of my decisions.
I brush sand off my arms, my shirt, the side of my face. It sticks anyway, lodged in places I’ll be finding later. My clothes are damp in uneven patches, stiff with salt. I pat my pockets out of habit, because habits don’t care about context. Nothing answers back. No phone. No wallet. No familiar weight to tell me this is still connected to something before.
Of course.
I turn in a slow circle, because standing still feels like agreeing to something I don’t understand yet. The beach keeps being a beach. The trees keep their distance. The island offers no instructions. Farther up the sand, something dark and unhelpfully organic sits half-buried. Driftwood, maybe. Something else, maybe not. I don’t go look yet. I don’t rush myself into answers that aren’t asking.
My shoulder pulses again, sharp enough to remind me it’s not done talking. I roll it once, carefully, and regret it immediately. I don’t try again. We’ve both made our point.
I start walking. Not toward anything specific. Just away from where I woke up, like the ground there might expect something from me I can’t deliver. Each step sinks a little, pulls back, releases me. The sound is soft, steady. It doesn’t echo. My head feels too loud inside that quiet, like I brought noise with me by accident.
I tell myself I’ll stop when something makes sense.
Nothing does.
I stop anyway.
I stand there, breathing, listening to the ocean breathe back, like we’re in some kind of agreement neither of us remembers signing. My heart slows. Or maybe I just notice it again now that nothing is happening.
I don’t say anything else out loud.
I’ve already learned the sun isn’t interested.
