Despite the roaring and crashing of trees in the jungle, they survived the night. Elliott awoke early, as did many people. They wanted to see if the rescue boats were there, or at the very least if they could be seen on the horizon. A clear, pristine ocean was there, just as they'd left it, and nothing else. You could see that look of devastation returning to people's eyes. The survivors handled it all sorts of ways. Some people cursed and muttered under their breath. Some people cried quietly. Oh, and a fight broke out before the sun got too high in the sky.

The fight started out over something small. But everyone was so on edge, that's all it –would- take. One comment about homeland security from a swaggering guy with a Southern accent. He started it, but the Iraqi guy just about finished it. A girl broke it up. A hot girl usually can, so long as she's not the cause or subject of the argument.

But aside from that, for the most part? People went back to the work they had started the night before. Granted, those sorting through unclaimed luggage and carry-ons from the plane did so solemnly. (And tried not to think about who they previously belonged to.) But still, the resiliency of the human spirit was quite a thing to witness – especially, as Elliott noticed, in the women. What was that quote his grandmother always used to say?

'When men hit their sixties and retire, they go right to pieces. Women keep right on cooking.'

The women weren't cooking, but holy smokes, they were sorting. Didn't go for everybody, of course. (No one quote could, right?) But Elliott decided to take grandma's advice and started sorting through luggage, too. He looked around for the girl with the red hair – Margo – but he didn't see her. He started looking through luggage and trying to find the owners. If no one claimed it, he'd do his best to hunt the person down. After all, he thought morbidly. There weren't that many people to ask.

Elliott carted a heavy sucker with wheels that didn't work quite right any more through the sand. Not unlike homeland security, he was doing some profiling of his own. Elliott saw the Cuban man that he'd met on the beach the night prior. The guy hummed to himself and threw up a tarp into the edge of the forest, trying to make a shelter.

"Excuse me!" Elliott called out. "Excuse me!"

The man looked over. In the light of day, Elliott noticed a scar over his left eye. A lot of people had cuts and bruises, but this one wasn't recent. The man probably got it before Elliott'd even been thought of.

Elliott caught his breath as he reached the man. "Hi, we met each other the night before."

"Yes," the man recalled.

"Right, so. I saw this bag. I was wondering if it was yours."

The man stepped down and looked it over. "No."

He started to walk away and return to hanging the tarp, when Elliott said, "I'm, uh, my name's Harp by the way."

"Hello," the man said. "I'm Ciero."

"Ciero. Is that a last name or first name?"

The man narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

"I'm only asking," Elliott said, "because I'm looking through a lot of luggage and belongings. Who knows? I might find something that belongs to you."

They stood there for what felt like a long time. Elliott had just about decided Ciero wasn't interested in answering his question, when he said, "Vasquez. My last name is Vasquez."

"Got it," Elliott said.

"Aren't you going to write it down?"

"No, I've got a …" Elliott smiled to himself and said, "I'm just really good with names."

With that, Ciero Vasquez dismissed Elliott and went back to hanging his tarp. Wasn't a bad idea either. If the humidity was any indication, it wouldn't be too long until it poured down rain. Again.

Elliott made his way to the opposite end of the beach. There were many realizations this experience was bringing on, and Elliott wasn't equipped to deal with all of them yet. Let alone the buzz just humming underneath everything he was thinking and feeling. (What if no one comes, what if no one ever comes, what if the food runs out and there's no more clean water and the sun just keeps beating and beating down and the rescue boats never come and the creatures that were roaring and crashing come to hunt us what then...)

Elliott knew these people could find their luggage themselves. They did that perfectly well every time they stepped off a plane, and no one had anything better to do besides. But he'd been trying to distract himself by running back and forth up and down the beach. He didn't realize how exhausted he'd become and how much his feet hurt. So when he saw the man he was looking for, he called out, "Hey!"

A big guy with a full and curly afro moseyed along and began walking in the opposite direction.

"Hey!" Elliott called again. "You!"

The big guy kept walking.

And then Elliott looked down at the luggage tag. "Hey! Mister … Hugo Reyes!"

At the sound of his name, the man turned around. He looked at Elliott with a confused stare. Despite his size, he moved quickly over to where Elliott stood. "Dude, how do you know my…." Then, a grin broke across his face. "Hey! You found my bag! Where was it?"

Elliott wiped sweat from his brow and took off his glasses to clean them with the edge of his shirttail. "It was all the way down this end of the beach. We've been bringing back as many bags as we can find and keeping them all together."

Hugo frowned suddenly and said, "Wait. How did you know I was me?"

Elliott admitted, "I've been stereotyping people up and down the beach."

Hugo huffed a short laugh at that and then said more seriously, "Yeah, you aren't the only one."

"Yeah, that was wild this morning, right?"

"You saw that fight break out?"

"Yeah. Some people have serious issues."

"Yeeeeah," Hugo slowly agreed. It was clear from the look on his face that Elliott's comment had reminded him of something else. "So, there's this guy. He's not doing too well… Some of us are looking for antibiotics and … gauze … and … anything that looks like it might be something a doctor could use to stop someone from bleeding."

They walked back to the group as they were talking. "We found a whole bunch of band-aids the other day."

"Yeah, this guy's going to need more than band-aids."

"Eesh," Elliott said. "Um…" He scratched his head. (He really needed a shower.) "Let me ask around to see what people have collected this morning."

"All right, man. Just let me know if you find anything." Hugo then said, "Hey. What's your name, dude?"

"I'm Elliott, but people call me Harp."

"I'm Hugo, but people call me Hurley."

Elliott reached out and shook the man's hand. "Go-Go Gadget nicknames."

Hurley smiled. "Didn't Dr. Claw live on a desert island?"

"I think that was his secret lair."

"We could use an Inspector Gadget right about now."

"Isn't that part of why they were all going on the hike? To see if that gadget they had could get a signal."

Hurley nodded. "Yeah. That's what they said. Go up the mountain, and send out the distress call."

"Well, like I said, everyone's been finding a lot of … stuff. Some of its cell phones and laptops. All the electronics just aren't organized in any way…Maybe that's the next thing we need to do." Elliott had a thought and he turned to the first person he saw, whose name he remembered, "Hey, Mr. Locke?"

An older gentleman with a very recent scar going down his right eye turned to him and raised his eyebrows.

"Have you seen that pile of empty suitcases that guy – Boone – was collecting?"

"Can't say I have."

"What about containers? Or boxes? Do you have any of those?"

Mr. Locke seemed to find something funny about that. He chuckled for a moment to himself and looked up with a satisfied smile. "No. No, I don't." Then softer. "Not any more."

"Oh," Elliott answered. "Okay."

Elliott and Hurley glanced at each other. They may as well have said:

'That's a weird answer. Right?'

'Pretty much, dude.'

If Locke noticed the glances, he showed no sign. "I'll let you know if I find any though."

Elliott nodded. "Thanks."