CHAPTER 56: HEAVEN-SENT

Nick’s POV

I woke to the sharp light of late morning, too bright for comfort. The sun was already high, and Georgia wasn’t in the cave.

Panic prickled under my skin. Today marked our fifth day stranded. My sister said it could take up to two weeks before rescue. We weren’t even halfway through.

I felt better, at least the fever had passed, but weakness still clung to me, probably from how violently my body purged itself last night. My stomach ached for food.

I added some wood to the fire, slipped on my now-dry pants, and scanned the area. No sign of Georgia. Maybe she went to forage, I thought, trying to keep calm.

But something felt...off.

I stepped back into the cave to grab the bag and my knife, only to find all three bags gone. The kitchen knife and my Swiss knife, too.

Why would she take everything?

I searched the shore. Nothing. The stream, empty. Even the ridge, where there are more fruit trees. Still no trace.

My chest tightened. There were bananas and papayas just past the ridge, easy pickings, but she hadn’t touched them. It was as if she never came this way at all.

Where the hell did she go?

I forced myself to breathe. To move. I gathered firewood, even the damp pieces. I could dry them inside the cave. But with every step, the same question echoed in my head:

Where is she? Where did she go? And why didn’t she wake me up?

When I returned to the cave and still found no sign of her, dread crept back in. I grabbed a large stick, more for reassurance than protection, and headed straight to the ridge again, hoping for any trace.

Just a few steps into the trees, I finally saw her.

Georgia was trudging toward me, drenched in sweat and covered in mud, struggling under the weight of three overstuffed bags. Her clothes clung to her skin, her legs streaked with dirt. She looked like she’d been through hell.

I rushed to her and took two of the bags from her hands. Damn, they were heavy.

"Careful!" she gasped, and then, out of nowhere, she burst into tears.

Panic gripped me. "What happened? Are you hurt?" I dropped the bags and scanned her frantically for wounds, scratches, bruises, anything. But there was nothing visible.

Still, her tears kept falling. "Georgia, please, talk to me. You’re scaring the hell out of me."

"I’m fine," she managed between sobs. "I just... I killed a bird."

My mouth opened, then closed again. I bit my tongue so hard it hurt. I couldn’t laugh—shouldn’t laugh. Not when she looked so broken.

She buried her face against my chest, clutching me like her life depended on it. Her entire body trembled as she cried harder, and I just held her, rubbing slow circles on her back.

"Do you want to talk about it?" I asked softly, brushing strands of hair away from her muddy face. "I’m here... always."

"I found some seabirds nesting on the other side of the island," Georgia whispered, voice trembling. "There were so many eggs... I took some. But then they started chasing me, squawking, flapping, and I panicked. One of them jumped at me and I just... I had the knife. I swung and stabbed it."

Her eyes were wide, haunted.

I stared at her, stunned and, strangely, impressed. "Damn. You’re a badass," I said, lips twitching despite the mood. "Killing a bird mid-attack? That takes guts."

Her face crumpled. "I didn’t kill it with one stab! I had to stab it again... and again. It wouldn’t stop coming after me!"

And then, she broke down again, tears spilling like a flood. Gods, she looked so damn cute—even with dirt on her face and mud stuck to her shirt.

I bit down on my lip, trying not to laugh, but she caught it. She smacked my chest and stormed off, wiping at her face like an angry little girl.

"Hey—wait," I called after her, jogging to catch up. "I’m sorry, alright? I just... couldn’t help it. I imagined you running around, screaming, stabbing a bird. It’s a ridiculous image."

She spun around, her eyes fiery and wet. "What if it was the parent of the eggs I took? What if I left its babies to starve? I murdered a mother!"

Then she turned and kept walking, her pace brisk, determined, broken. I followed her silently, heart aching—because I saw more than her guilt. I saw her soul.

She sat quietly in front of the campfire, her back to me, and unzipped her muddy bag. With trembling hands, she pulled out the eggs, those same ones that had her in tears moments ago.

"Are you feeling better?" she asked, her voice soft, eyes still downcast, and sniffles betraying her emotions.

"I’m completely healed," I said, kneeling beside her. "Tell me what to do. I want to help."

She reached for the second bag without meeting my eyes. "The bird’s in here. Clean it. I can’t look at it while it still has feathers... or I might not be able to eat it."

I watched her carefully. Her shoulders were tense, her voice forced steady. "We don’t have to eat it," I offered gently. "There are ripe bananas and papayas near the ridge. We’ll manage."

"No, Nick." She finally looked at me, firm but vulnerable. "You need protein. You just got better, and fruits might upset your stomach again. Don’t tell me you don’t know how to clean a bird?"

"I do," I replied, sighing. "I just don’t want you to carry more guilt."

"It’s okay," she whispered. "We need to survive. I’ll just pretend... it was heaven-sent."

I stood up and brushed her cheek with the back of my fingers. "Go wash up at the spring. I’ll take care of this at the shore."

She hesitated for a moment, then nodded. She grabbed her dry clothes, and with a small glance over her shoulder, we walked away in opposite directions.