By the time the sun climbed its way to the middle of the sky, casting short, cruel shadows on the sand, I was already wishing I could go back to sleep.
Not because I was lazy. Not even because I wanted peace.
But because everything—everything—hurt.
Alexis had helped me sit upright under a shaded portion of our makeshift camp, a patchy lean-to propped together with driftwood and palm fronds that Evelyn had helped drag ashore. I was wrapped in blankets that smelled faintly of salt and iodine, and every time I moved, my ribs protested with a sharp, grinding ache.
No skills. No strength. No jobs. Just me.
Just Reynard Vale—flesh, bone, and regret.
Across the little clearing, I could hear the others working. Camille was wrestling with some kind of vine that she insisted could be turned into rope or clothing—maybe both. Sienna was crouched near a freshly-dug firepit, stacking bits of driftwood into a triangle while Alexis checked over the emergency kits.
And me?
