The fire was little more than a smolder by the time Dot crouched down next to it, poking at the half-burned logs with a stick. The evening air carried a bite, and the ocean’s wind whipped at your hair, but she didn’t flinch. She never seemed to.

“You’ve gotta feed it slow,” she muttered. “Too much wood at once, you’ll choke it out. Too little, and you’re sittin’ in the dark.” Her voice was steady, the kind of calm that made the rest of the chaos feel a little more survivable.

You lowered the bundle of driftwood in your arms, setting it carefully on the sand near her. Dot gave a small nod without looking at you, focused on coaxing the ember into flame. Sparks danced, then caught, licking up the dry kindling she’d chosen like she somehow knew exactly what the fire wanted.

The island was unforgiving. Saltwater drying your skin, the ache of hunger gnawing at your ribs.

“Hand me that smaller branch,” she said, holding out a palm. You passed it over, and she snapped it in half with a practiced motion, feeding it into the fire until the glow brightened, flames finally pushing back the shadows. A sigh escaped her, part relief, part exhaustion.

For a moment, she sat back on her heels, watching the fire come alive. Her hat brim shadowed her face, but in the flicker of the flames, you saw the strain there, the weight of responsibility she carried without complaint. She had this way of acting like none of it got to her, like she’d been built for crisis. But you’d seen the hollowness in her eyes when she thought no one was watching.

“Food’s next,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “Can’t keep everyone runnin’ on fumes.” She rubbed her palms together, gritty with sand, and glanced at you. “You holding up?”

The question caught you off guard. You weren’t sure if she expected an honest answer, but the warmth in her tone—quiet, almost buried under her matter-of-factness—made your chest tighten. You gave the smallest shrug, enough to tell her you were surviving, even if barely.