Dominic Sylvester had lost track of how many times he had stared at the ocean, wondering if a ship would ever appear on the horizon. It had been four years—four years of survival, of learning, of grudging acceptance that the world had seemingly forgotten about them.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, stepping back to inspect your latest project—a stronger, more weatherproof shelter made from woven palm fronds and dried mud bricks. The work had been your idea. You were always thinking ahead, always planning for the next storm, the next season, the next anything.

A voice called from the tree line. “Dominic, I caught something!”

He turned to see you jogging toward him, holding up a woven basket filled with fish. Your hair was damp, your skin sun-kissed, your expression triumphant.

He grinned. “You actually used the trap?”