It was familiar...like sweet potato or...

Stroking the muddy root, a vague memory returned: taro. Instantly, I discounted it as I remembered it was poisonous if not cooked correctly. I wasn’t entirely sure on its preparation and was scared of the risks...but what if it turned out to be a staple like potatoes? The fibre and carbohydrates would be a godsend to our diet.

I wanted to tell Galloway. I wanted to ask his opinion.

But I couldn’t.

I’d learned from the last scratch test not to let him see what I was doing and chose a different place to my forearm for further testing. My hipbones were a good selection. Thin skin, easy to irritate, and hidden away from view.

I kept a t-shirt and shorts on over the course of the two days that a particular swelling took to disappear.

I’d eaten another slightly denser leaf last week, testing the hypothesis from scratch to consuming. And apart from a small twinge in my gut, I’d been fine. However, that couldn’t be said for another sample just a few days ago. That had twisted my insides with agony, dispelling itself with overwhelming cramps.

I’d been weak for a few days, doing my best to hide my affliction from the children and Galloway.

Every day, we ate clams and coconuts washed down by rainwater, and every day, I wanted to bring out the approved leaves and taro and announce a new element to our menu.

But something held me back.

I wanted to try again and again to make sure it was safe. I wanted to use myself as the guinea pig so when I did reveal my findings, Galloway had no choice but to accept it was a good decision.

I’d been terrified of returning to camp the night I left him with my final decision. I’d left it as long as I could before returning with my eyes downcast and guilt heavy on my spine.

But he hadn’t pounced and made me reveal why I’d turned him down. He didn’t yell or shout. He’d merely smiled when I placed a log on the fire and slipped into bed. The children had already returned, and Pippa was fast asleep with my puffer jacket thrown over her shoulders.

Conner had waved as I lay down, blowing me a kiss goodnight.

I’d caught it, barricading my soul from clenching with pain.

I didn’t dare look at Galloway, but as I lay staring at the stars, his voice whispered across the sand. “Friends, Estelle.”

Instead of being relieved, my heart broke, and I sniffed back tears. “Friends, Galloway. For life.”

Ever since that ceasefire, we’d gotten on with our lives. Conner had become better with his spear, and he’d managed to catch three fish over the course of two weeks. The first had been a bright parrotfish that barely fed the children with its bony flesh and tiny fillets. The second had been a silver thing with spines that’d made Galloway bleed as he gutted it. And the third had been the largest—a species of reef fish I didn’t know the name of, but tasted like the ocean and turned flaky when cooked.

The past few nights, Conner hadn’t been successful, and we’d resorted to clams and coconuts (our version of rice and chicken). Meanwhile, I worked on another project to keep me busy.

We still didn’t have shelter, and I’d reached my limit of sleeping on the cool sand. By day, our umbrella tree kept us safe from the sun, but at night, even the fire couldn’t turn damp grains into a comfortable bed.

I’d tried to make a blanket a few weeks ago. After watching Galloway and Pippa plait metres of flax rope, I’d modified the idea and weaved larger pieces together. However, the plant material had been too dense and unbendable. Not at all useable as a blanket.

It wasn’t a complete loss.

The stiffness of the weave meant it became a handy covering to sit on and we’d each taken turns to sleep on it to see if it would be better.

However, after a sleepless night, we all agreed it was too rough with prickly edges.

I hadn’t given up and a fresh idea came to me after glaring at the mat, wishing I had some wool or cotton. Every material I craved was natural with manmade manipulation, to turn it from its original state (sheep’s wool to decadent spun colours and silkworm cocoons into satiny dresses). I didn’t have sheep or silkworms, but I did have something I could weave together; I just had to figure out how to make it softer.

“Whatcha doin’?” Pippa looked over my shoulder as I shredded more flax into the saltwater I’d gathered in a fuselage tray. I’d wedged the trough by the water’s edge where the sun beamed the hottest.

“Hopefully making a blanket.”

Pippa wrinkled her nose. “How?”

“Not sure yet.” My pile grew bigger as I continued to shred. Once I had enough strips, I pressed on the plant matter, drowning it. My hands revelled in the feel of warm liquid after the sun had heated it. The ocean was bath-warm and did perfectly fine for washing every day, but I missed hot showers and instant electricity for boiling water.

Coffee.

God, I missed coffee.

Caffeine in general.

For a few weeks after the crash, I’d had a caffeine headache that had nothing to do with dehydration.

I found it strange that I didn’t crave fast food, but I did mourn the ability to go to a store and buy ingredients for anything I wanted. I was a vegetarian, so eating meat was never my thing, but spices were. Cumin and paprika and cinnamon. We had salt now (thanks to our coconut shell of evaporated seawater) but nothing else. No mint or sage or coriander.

No sugar.

God, I missed sugar just as much as I missed coffee. I couldn’t deny I had a sweet tooth.

I smiled, nudging Pippa’s shoulder with mine as she poked the drenched flax. “You’re allergic to cocoa but what about sweets like marshmallows and things? Do you miss them?”