𝒲hen he stay very still, the fish dared to poke their heads near his legs, swimming cautiously as he remained perfectly quiet. He firmly held an improvised spear, fashioned from a thick branch and sharpened with a small knife he'd found in the suitcases that had survived the accident and floated adrift, like him, like his family. He didn't move an inch, breathing slowly as a silver fish swam past him. With a swift motion, he drew back the spear and plunged it into the sand. He heard a flick of fins and saw blood in the water. As he raised the spear again, the dying fish writhed, impaled by the sharp wood. Mark blinked, and a short laugh escaped him, unable to believe it. He had finally caught something, after trying and failing almost all day. He turned, seeing his wife on the shore and waved the spear in the air in victory. She wouldn't go hungry tonight, and that made him smile again after a week on the island. It wasn't just one; after that, he managed to catch two more, until the sun hid behind the trees.

When night fell, they managed to build a small fire and let the fish cook. He shredded it with his bare hands, dirty and salty from the sea. He shoved it into his mouth with desperation. And just like that, without seasoning or cleaning, it tasted like the best fish he had ever had.

— "Here, eat." — He held a piece in his hand and brought it to her mouth. — "All of it. I'll catch more tomorrow."

He guided it to her mouth, between her chapped, pale lips. But beautiful. Only she could look so good after a week adrift in the Pacific, with her disheveled curls, her sun-weathered skin, her dirty clothes, and the small cuts on her face. He kissed her forehead as she ate, pulling her close to his chest in front of the fire. A few feet away lay the battered and open suitcases they had managed to salvage, containing some clothing and food that helped them through the first few days. Water was scarce, but Mark had managed to collect some from the recent rain.

Beside them, nestled among blankets that served as a makeshift crib, the baby stirred. Their five-month-old baby who had miraculously survived, safe and sound. Mark reached out to cover him with a blanket.

— "He’s doing alright, isn’t he? Such a strong lil' fella."