Galloway never mentioned me sampling the foliage for food and never refused the leaves I deemed fine to consume. We soaked the taro for a few days and tossed away the water before double boiling to ensure whatever toxins existed were no longer harmful.

Trial by trial, knowledge by knowledge, we all learned new skills. It wasn’t a conscious decision (although I did my best to advance my understanding on a daily basis) but evolution taking control to ensure our survival.

Things I’d never paid attention to suddenly became useful: the skinny vines hanging like streamers in the trees became natural string. The large taro leaves became handy pouches and coverings for our slowly growing larder of food. We threaded the vertebrae and discarded bones from our dinners on string to create wind chimes, composing music in the breeze, or slightly morbid jewellery for Pippa.

The island had stripped everything away, but in return, it’d given us new choices. Choices that held so much more importance than internet browsing or television channels.

Here...our concerns had whittled down to one: surviving.

As long as we achieved fire, warmth, food, and companionship...we were winning at this new life. No matter the stress of abandonment and constant wondering if we were lost forever, we had each other and that was priceless.

Conner’s success (thanks to Galloway) with the octopus, invigorated him to keep improving his spearing skills and most days (admittedly after hours of lunging and sometimes defeat) he came home with a fish.

If he wasn’t so lucky, he returned with other morsels. He produced an eel last week, which was almost as terrifying as the dead sea snake, a large crab two days ago that gave each of us a mouthful of delicious flesh, and yet more clams.

Between the food from the sea and the salad from the forest, we curbed our hankering for variety, but we couldn’t confuse our taste buds into wanting more flavour.

I craved seasoning other than salt. I would’ve given away every basket I’d woven just for a bottle of peach iced tea. I’d even donate my semi-successful flax blanket for a heavenly sip of chilled apple cider.

The other night, Galloway had been discussing the children’s birthdays as Pippa was turning eight soon. He’d let it slip that his was only a few weeks after hers.

I’d hoped rescue would be their gift. However, if fate wasn’t that kind, I had plans to make the softest, comfiest blanket I could for both of them.

My technique of rotting the strands until they were pliable worked. The overall result gave us something to drape without being stiff and scratchy. And I’d already thought up new ways on how to refine the concept with scraping the filaments before soaking, thrashing them, bruising them. Experiments that would hopefully yield something better.

Apart from the overheard conversation, we didn’t discuss our previous lives often. Some unspoken agreement existed that those memories would only depress us, and for now...we were different people (stranded, wild, and entirely dependent on the land) and no longer city dwellers with bankcards or phone numbers.

It didn’t mean I stopped believing in gift giving and appreciation. The past month, Galloway had morphed from my friend into my confidant, rock, and brother. The way he watched me with cobalt-blue arrows ensnared my heart until it beat only for him.

Most days, he hid his dark pain, smiling and interacting, showing only a muscular islander with long chocolate hair, sable eyelashes, and a mouth that entranced me whenever he talked.

But some days, he looked as if he’d been up all night drinking, hung over with whatever he’d done in his past, buried beneath guilt and disgrace. Those days, I fell for him more. Because those days made me see the truth.

He wasn’t just a man. He wasn’t the tatty clothes he wore or the unkempt emotions he hid. He was mine. And I wanted him more than anything.

But not once had he forced me to face my feelings. He no longer avoided me. He chatted with me, laughed with me, discussed new ways to harvest water and store supplies. He walked with me (or rather limped with me) on nights I wanted to stroll with no messy undertones and helped with chores with no anger or hidden contempt.

He was the perfect gentleman.

But one thing was missing.

I wasn’t proud of my actions. I hated myself for turning him down with no explanation. But I couldn’t help it. I’d denied myself what I wanted. Not because of some stupid decision, but because of a bonafide fear of getting pregnant. Despite the length of time here, my periods hadn’t stopped. I could still give birth.

Maybe once they stop?

But they might never stop. We might scavenge and hunt enough that my body never ceased being fertile.

Galloway didn’t know my fears, and my terror didn’t stop me from growing wet or watching him every second I could. Some mornings, I’d pretend to be asleep just to catch a glimpse of his morning erection as he stood. I gawked when he came out of the ocean in his black boxer-briefs, and one day, when I’d been in the tide with Conner and Pippa and he’d been on his own up the beach, I’d caught him naked, slipping commando into his board-shorts. The size and shape of him had clenched my core until I could’ve come with the slightest touch.

The throbbing desire drove me mad. I became tongue-tied whenever he was near because all I could think of was sex, sex, sex.

I’d tried to hug him the night we ate octopus and told ghost stories around the fire. I’d gathered the courage to touch him as a friend and hoped I was strong enough to keep it platonic.

But when I’d leaned in, he’d backed away, pouring acid on my wounds with a small shake of his head and a glow in his eyes that destroyed me.