Does It Hurt? (29)
“My radio stopped working a week ago. Dead batteries and got no replacements. A cargo ship comes ’round here about once a month, and I buy everything I need from ’em.”
“Buy? You’re still working?”
He shoots me a glare. “I’m retired. And being retired pays well. My money ain’t no concern of yours.”
It isn’t, but his story adding up is.
Finishing at the sink, he hobbles toward a woodpile stacked against the far left wall, and I narrow my eyes.
“When did the last cargo ship come by?”
Another grunt as he starts piling wood into his arms.
“Three days ago,” he answers. “I told ’em about it, and they didn't have any with them, so they promised to bring me replacements next month.”
I just barely manage to suppress a scowl as he turns around and hobbles toward me. Fury is bubbling in my chest, threatening to spew out of my mouth.
What he’s not saying is, we’re stuck here for a fucking month. A month with an old, strange man and a girl who nearly stole my entire fucking life from me.
“I'm sure we can shine the beacon and wait for someone to come by.”
He scoffs. “Ain't no ships come around here if they can help it. These waters are dangerous, as you've come to learn yerself. That's why my supplier only comes by once a month.”
I grind my teeth. Sawyer may have made a fool out of me, but I know deep in my bones that he's hiding something.
“I'd like to see the radio.”
“Be my guest, boy,” he chortles condescendingly, digging in his pocket, pulling it out, and then tossing it at me. I catch it in my hand, shooting him a glare.
“You carry dead radios in your pocket often?” I challenge, quirking a brow.
He grunts. “Habit.”
It's a black compact device and completely dead. The switch is already in the ON position. Unconvinced, I slide off the back cover. The batteries are hot to the touch, which immediately invokes suspicion, but I can't prove he did anything yet. So, I stay silent as he makes his way into the little living room and starts piling the wood inside of the fireplace.
“Coffee okay?” Sylvester asks Sawyer. “Go ’head and put your feet up.”
“Coffee is great,” she chirps, lifting her feet to the fireplace. The bottoms are cut up and bleeding, but she doesn’t complain.
“Got a first aid kit?” I ask.
Sylvester looks to me and then slides his gaze toward Sawyer’s feet when he notices where I’m staring.
“My golly, young lady!” he exclaims. “Yer gonna get yerself an infection. Let me grab the kit.”
As if I don't have dried blood on the side of my face, but what-the-fuck-ever.
Sawyer opens her mouth, guilt etched into her face and gearing up to likely tell him not to worry, so I snap, “Let him.”
She glances at me, now clenching her jaw with irritation. Must've lost all my fucks to give in the ocean.
“He has trouble getting around,” she mutters once Sylvester leaves, making his way slowly up the spiral steps.
“They’ll get infected, and then you’ll have trouble getting around. You want wooden pegs just like him?”
She rolls her eyes. “I would never use wood. I’d be cursed with splinters for the rest of my life. I’d much prefer to be a cyborg.”
My frustration mounts. Everything is a fucking joke with her.
Right as I open my mouth, Sylvester is clanging loudly down the stairs and calling out, “I got plenty of stuff in here! Must admit, I don’t find much reason to hurt muh-self these days, so use whatever ya need.”
Grinding my teeth, I meet him halfway and grab the first aid kit, sweat gleaming along his red face.
“Thank you, son. Most days, I use my crutches to get around. This leg ain’t so agreeable with me. I don’t have much as far as clothing, but I got ya both some dry t-shirts and some sweats fer now.”
He hands over the clothing, the small pile smelling musty. Again, I keep silent as I sit next to Sawyer and hand her the kit after grabbing my own alcohol pad.
She can clean her own damn wounds. As long as they heal and can carry her happy ass onto a boat, then into a police station when we get back to Port Valen, I'm satisfied.
Muttering a thank you, she gets to work while I clean up the cut on my temple. My head feels like it's splitting open, and it's possible I may have a concussion, but I'm not anticipating sleeping much tonight anyway.
“How is it you still have electricity?” I question, glancing at Sawyer. Her tongue is sticking out as she swipes at the bottom of her foot.
“Got me some solar panels out back and a nice generator. Them things cost me a fortune, but suppose it was necessary.”
“How long have you been here?” Sawyer asks, finishing her sentence with a hiss.
“Since 1978,” he declares proudly. “I’ve been takin’ care of Raven Isle since it was built. Been out of commission for about twelve years or so, but I couldn’t let ’er go.”
“Raven Isle,” Sawyer repeats, glancing at Sylvester. “That’s the name of the island?”
“Sure is. Named ’er myself.”
“It’s pretty,” she replies, though she’s distracted. She keeps trying to turn her foot at an angle that’s not physically possible so she can reach a cut.