Deadly.

I swallowed hard. “Not if the dose was small enough. Not if it’s on an extremity and not on the chest or throat.” I did my best to sound knowledgeable and confident, but inside...inside, I was a little girl screaming for her parents to fix this.

Pippa bawled harder. “Don’t die, Conner! Don’t. Don’t go to sleep.” Hurling herself onto Conner’s chest, Galloway stroked her hair while never letting go of her brother.

The little boy looked sick and terrified, his eyes round and white skin shining with sweat.

“What can we do?” Galloway glared at me. “Estelle...think, goddammit.”

“I—I don’t know.”

Liar. You do know.

At least...I think I did.

Memories slowly smashed through rusty locks, bowling through cobwebs and age-tarnished recollections. The longer I thought about school lessons and motherly chiding, the more I recalled what to do.

Somehow, Galloway sensed that. He turned to me to heal the boy we’d fallen in love with. As an Englishman, living in a country where the deadliest animal was a badger, he had no expertise.

But I did.

I can do this.

Fake confidence became real as my nursing skills slipped into regimented actions.

Pulling Pippa away (again), I bowed over Conner. “Co, I know it hurts and I’m going to help you. But first, I need to know how long you stood on it for. Do you remember?”

His face scrunched up. “Only a second. I stepped, it hurt. I jumped.”

“That’s good, right?” Galloway’s voice bordered rage and anxiousness.

I hope so.

I nodded. “That’s great.”

He has a much better chance of surviving.

“Wait here.” Bolting up the beach, I thanked heavens that I’d already put the water on to boil for lunch. It’d reached temperature, bubbling away in its fuselage container. My memory of how to treat such a sting was rusty at best, but I remembered something about hot water—as hot as the injured could stand (sometimes as high as boiling)—and drawing as much of the poison out with scrubbing and disinfecting.

Grabbing a coconut shell, I scooped boiling water, grabbed the Swiss Army knife, a new coconut from the storage pile by the umbrella tree, the severely lacking medical kit from the cockpit, and a torn piece of clothing we kept for cleaning.

Hugging my possessions, and doing my best not to slosh boiling water on my fingers, I flew back to Conner.

Landing on my knees, my knuckles scalded as I carefully wedged the dripping coconut shell in the sand.

Pippa once again sprawled over her brother, bawling.

Frustration bled through my voice. “Pippa, darling, I need you to let go of Conner.” I pushed the terrified girl. “Galloway, I need you to put Conner flat on his back.”

Without a word, Galloway obeyed, relinquishing Conner to the sand and tugging Pippa into his arms to keep her away while I worked.

Forcing a smile for Conner's sake, I bent over him. “This is going to hurt, but I promise the pain will get better. Okay?”

His tiny fists clenched; his nostrils flared. But he nodded like a World War I trooper behind enemy lines. “Okay.”

I kissed his forehead. “Good boy.”

Moving to his feet, I tested the water. It wasn’t boiling anymore but was still too hot. But we had no antibiotics; nothing to fight whatever battled in Conner’s nervous system. I’d rather burn him than let him die from anaphylactic shock.

“Take a deep breath.”

Stealing his foot, I placed it into the hot water.

He screamed.

“What the hell, Estelle?” Galloway shouted.

Pippa squealed, her sobs turning to hysteria. “Stop it! Don’t hurt him!”

Anxiety and horror at causing more pain made me snap. “Shut up. All of you. This is what has to happen.” I pushed his foot back into the water. “Please, Conner. Be brave.”

He moaned and thrashed, but his strong little heart gave him the courage to keep his foot in such fiery hotness. The moment I knew he’d keep it there, I turned to the medical kit and wrenched open the second-to-last packet of disinfectant swabs we had.

Wrenching his foot out of the water, I scrubbed his wound hard.

I ignored his screams and tugs to pull away. I braced myself against the disbelieving look from Galloway as I deliberately hurt the poor boy.

But I did the right thing.

I was helping.

So I kept scrubbing, hard and fast, using my fingernails where needed in the wound to ensure nothing remained.

Conner retched again, holding his stomach as the cramping began.

More memories returned of what he would go through. The next twelve hours would be a terrible nightmare: tummy cramps, breathlessness, weakness, headache, diarrhoea, vomiting, paralysis, and even skin peeling from the infected area.

But that was only if he had a full dose.

A minor sting would bring him immense agony with a peaked fever for the first hour or two...after that, it would start to fade.

Hopefully.

Please...please let this work.

Conner passed out before I finished cleaning, and Pippa turned almost catatonic with tears.

My own tears threatened to wash me away, but I blocked everything out and focused on holding Conner’s foot in the scorching water before sluicing it with fresh coconut juice (for whatever antibacterial and antioxidant properties it might have).

The rest of the day was the longest I’d ever lived. I remained nurse to Conner, flitting around him like a nervous hummingbird while Galloway turned into nightmare-fighter and tear-protector for Pippa.