erable, and there's nothing more miserable than a summer storm. She was, after all, only trying to cheer me up.
“I'm sorry,” I said, and I meant it. “What do you wish for, then?”
Her lips widened on just one side of her face, a dimpled, painful attempt at a smile.
“I wish to get rescued.”
She made a good point. She made a good wish. And I should have listened.
She tossed the siren's purse into the sea.
~
It was another two days before the bodies started turning up. Bloated and translucent like dead puffer fish upon the shore. We tried to ignore them as we rolled our trousers up to our knees and waded into the gray waters to rescue salted hams and water sodden provisions that made their way to the island. We were hungry, but not starving, not yet, not in the proper sense, at least. And not as hungry as the seagulls squawking, arguing, and circling over the fodder in a flap of white feathers and orange beaks. I chased them away, splashing water right up over my knees. I flapped my arms and roared at them to get off because it felt good to howl and scream and let off the steam brewing in my lungs. One seagull landed on the captain's head while two more bobbed on his bulging stomach as the shore waters gently rocked him. I chased them no more.
We sat on the damp sand looking out towards the shifting gray mass of ocean surrounding our tiny island. We shared our provisions, eating without zeal despite our hunger. The rain had turned into a fine mist—the type of mist that penetrates the skin and and dampens even the innermost part
“We should swim out and see if there's more food stuck onboard,” I suggested but Summer shook her head.