On the island, every day looked the same, and once they finished building their settlement, the days began blending together. The boat washed away on their fourth day. There was a deafening crack, like thunder, and they watched, transfixed, as the water took it.

Jack and Clarence set nets and fishing lines every morning. There was fresh fish at every meal. The canned food was stacked neatly in the storage hut and left for a time when fresh food wasn't so easy to procure. Rose and Samantha gathered bananas, coconuts, mangoes, and fruits they didn't know the names of. Cal joined in the work of maintaining camp and gathering food, but he remained silent most of the time. Occasionally, someone would try and include him in the conversation, but his responses were short and almost never invited further inquiry.

Clarence hung one of the extra nets in his hut for a hammock. He had a small table, a chair, and a wooden box for storage. Jack and Rose had one of the beds from the boat. They did without the frame and slept on the mattress. They each had a side of the hut, with its own chair and box. They shared the table. Rose filled the small room with fresh flowers; Jack carefully tacked up drawings. He had a limited supply of paper, so he only allowed himself to draw on certain days and at certain times. Cal and Samantha had the same furnishings, but they barely altered their hut. Samantha did her best to make it cheerful, but Cal shrugged at her efforts, so she gave up.

Cal's disbelief at their situation had given way to a conviction that it wouldn't last. It couldn't possibly last. Each morning, he woke up not knowing where he was. There was a moment when he believed he was at home in his own bed, but the sound of the waves crashing or the voices of the others always brought him back to the island. Some days the only thing that got him out of bed was his belief that it would all be over soon. People didn't just disappear, especially not people like Samantha and himself. Someone was looking for them. He spent hours scanning the horizon for a ship. He turned down invitations to explore, swim, to join in whatever fun was being had. The horizon had to be watched. He had to be ready to signal their rescuers.

Samantha didn't say anything, but she was worried about him. He slept fitfully. He tossed and turned, mumbling to himself. He always seemed distracted. Even when they were alone he was silent. After his outburst that first night, nothing more had happened. At first she had been relieved, but now it seemed like yet more cause for concern. Cal had never been particularly angry with her before that incident. He had been displeased, but he never yelled or threatened her. Stories about his violent temper were whispered among their circle, and some speculated it had been the cause of his broken engagement so many years ago.

Cal never spoke about his former fiancée. Samantha was told the girl had died, a tragic casualty of the Titanic sinking, but some of her friends claimed it wasn't so. They said not only had the girl survived, but she had actually broken the engagement herself. She left Cal for another men. There were dozens of stories about it. Samantha knew better than to ask Cal to verify any of them. She believed sheer luck had down him. After his engagement ended he lived the life of a confirmed bachelor, and Samantha was convinced nothing but luck of the strongest order could have changed his mind. She never would have dreamed he simply got tired of his lifestyle and the nagging of his family, or that as a beautiful, agreeable, girl she was exactly what he wanted. The fact that she was completely in love with him was a bonus he hadn't counted upon.

Samantha wanted to do something to rouse Cal from his stupor, but she was at a loss as to what to try. What was there for him to look forward to? What was there for him to be excited about? He didn't indulge in the simple pleasures the others—and even she—enjoyed. Part of her felt obligated to stay with him, while another part wanted to stay with him. As his wife, it was her duty to sit and stare into the horizon with him. She should share his silent vigil. But aside from a few attempts, she didn't. Cal didn't complain, but she knew he didn't care if she was there. He was just as happy alone. So, she joined the others in their rambles, their swimming, their games and stories.

Rose was still determined to get close to Samantha, but she hadn't tried to push their conversations any further. Samantha's boundaries were unstated but clearly defined. If she pushed too hard, they would likely stop being friends altogether.

They had only a few diversions. They had the few books they had brought with them and the games that were on the boat. They could choose from a deck of cards, chess, checkers, or a wooden top. Unfortunately, it was impossible to make the top spin on the sand. Rose's books made it off the boat unharmed, and only one of Samantha's books suffered any significant damage. Between them they had a dozen, ranging from Austen to Forster. A few others had been left on the boat by previous passengers, mostly mystery stories, but a copy of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn was among them. Rose claimed it first, although she didn't start reading it until nearly a month had gone by.

The worst of the day's heat had burned off. Rose and Jack were lazily sprawled out by the lake, under a tree's shade. Jack lay flat on his back, his hands tucked under his head. Rose leaned against the tree trunk, Huck Finn propped against her knees. By now, they were both turning brown, although Jack tanned far more quickly than she did. Neither wore shoes. Rose's suitcase had been recovered, but she still wore a version of the outfit she had created for herself. Jack's pants were rolled up nearly to the knee. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow. He looked more like the carefree vagabond she had met than he had in years.

"You're not reading," he remarked lightly.

"Your eyes are closed."

"You're staring at me." He smiled. "And you stopped turning the pages."

"I don't know why you think I'd want to stare at you," she said haughtily. "Of all the nerve!"

"Sorry miss," he said cheerfully. He gave her foot an affectionate squeeze. She laughed. "I'm going to read now, if you don't mind," she said. Jack was dozing off when she spoke again. "He reminds me of you."

He didn't open his eyes. "Who?" he murmured.

"Huck," she said. 'He's just like you."

Jack yawned. "What makes you say that?"

"He's honest," she explained. "He's kind and intelligent in all the ways that matter, but what I like best is that he doesn't lie to himself. He sees people for who they are, even if he doesn't let them know. That sounds a great deal like you. And," she added with a grin, "He's restless, always trying to get somewhere else. He never wears shoes or proper clothes."

Jack moved up next to her. "You think that's me, huh? And I haven't seen you wear proper clothes since we got here," he teased.

"I do," she replied. "And I've been wearing clothes that are entirely proper for this sort of life. How would I get anything done in a dress and shoes? I don't know how Samantha can stand it. She must be boiling in all those layers. Cal too."

"She still hasn't talked to you, has she?"

Rose shook her head. "I'm sure she wants to, but she won't let herself. I think she's afraid."

"Of Cal?"

"No. At first I thought so, but now I think it's more that she's afraid of herself," she said pensively. "As if she's afraid of really looking at herself or him."

"He's been actin' strange," Jack remarked. "I'm glad he started helping, but it's kind of spooky the way he never says anything. He just stares at the ocean. I thought he was just mad about having to be here—and with us—but that's not it, or not all of it anyway. He's sad. I never thought I'd say that, or that I'd care, but I do."

"I know what you mean. When I see him standing there, waiting like that, I feel sorry for him. This would be hard on anyone, but it must be particularly difficult for someone like him."

Overall, she and Jack were adjusting well to their situation, but that didn't mean they hadn't encountered difficulties of their own. They didn't voice their worries; they grappled with them in silence, hoping the other was having an easier time. Jack worried they would be there for the rest of their lives. It was fine now, while they were still young and strong, but what would happen once they got older? How would they survive when they were too old to haul in the fishing nets or carry freshwater back to camp? What if someone in the group got sick or was injured? What would they do about it?

Rose's worries were similar, but there was one notable difference. She worried about what would happen if she became pregnant before they were rescued—that is, if they ever were. Even their best efforts at preventing it weren't foolproof, and they had been lax about it during the first weeks on the island. It just hadn't seemed as important. More and more, Rose found herself facing that possibility; it was almost inevitable, unless they stayed away from each other completely, and there was little chance of that happening.

They couldn't raise a child on a deserted island. Could they? That wasn't fair to it. They were adults; they didn't mind the isolation so much. They had each other to talk to, and the others were enough outside company. If they had a child, would she—or he—grow up and marry? Unless somehow another child were born that wasn't a relation, theirs would be doomed to a solitary life. And children got sick. Babies were terrifyingly fragile creatures. They would have no way of treating illnesses, aside from the few home remedies they were able to cook up.

There was also the question of the birth itself. None of them knew how to deliver a baby. What if something went wrong? What if she died? Women dying in childbirth wasn't quite as common as it once was, but it was far from a rare occurrence. Who would take care of the baby then? Who would take care of Jack?

Rose wanted to share her fears with him, but she didn't want to add to those he already had. He maintained his usual cheerful disposition, but she knew he was anxious about their situation. At certain moments, usually when he was tired, she saw the worry in his eyes. They both knew the danger they were in. They had built a camp and established a routine for each day, but at any moment it could all come crashing down.

Still, she admitted, eventually she would have to tell him.

"Do you think we should try and do something for him?" Rose asked. "It doesn't seem right to let him go on like this. It isn't healthy. What if we gets worse? Becomes delusional or suicidal? I'm not worried about us or Clarence, really, but he might hurt Samantha."

"What can we do? He's not gonna listen to anyone, especially us. Nothing we say will make him accept what's happened."

"It might," she insisted. "We should at least try. I couldn't live with myself if something happened to one of them, and I knew I could have at least tried to prevent it but didn't. Jack, you didn't walk away from the strange girl hanging off the back of a ship. You can't walk away from this. And don't say it's different," she added. "You didn't know me; I meant nothing to you. If you'd left, no-one would have known you were even there, not even me, and as you said, I wouldn't have jumped. You also probably wouldn't be in this predicament."

"You don't know that," he argued. "I might be in a worse predicament. I might've died in the sinking. And you're right, I couldn'tve walked away from you. I don't know why; it was none of my business. But I had to make sure you'd be alright. I'd seen you; I knew what you were trying to do. How could I turn away? If you'd died, it would've been on my conscience for the rest of my life." Jack sighed. "So, I guess I'll talk to Cal, or I'll try anyway. Rose, I doubt he'll listen. I'm the last person he'd take advice from."

"Well, if he won't listen to you," she said, "I'll try. I'm sure he cares for me even less than he does you, but I can't give up without knowing we've done all we could."

Jack put an arm around her. "You're a good person," he said. "Anyone ever tell you that?"

"I've had to be," she said with a chuckle. "Living with you all these years. I'm afraid my spoiled brat tendencies weren't allowed to survive."

"You don't think I spoil you?" he asked in mock horror. "Rose-Petal, you can't be serious! I got you your very own deserted island!"

She laughed. "You mean this was all your doing? Jack, you shouldn't have!"

He shrugged. "What can I say? I'm a slave to your whims, miss."

She rolled her eyes. "You're silly; that's what you are." She let herself lean against him. She felt so safe in his arms; every work melted away. If only that feeling could last. If only every problem could be solved with a hug from Jack.

….

In the evenings, they saw around the fire and told stories. Some were made-up, some were from books, and others were the kind of story everyone has heard but listens to raptly anyway. Their stories usually started out light-hearted, but they always became tales of terror before the evening was concluded. There was something about the atmosphere that demanded it. Sitting around a fire, the dim light flickering over each of their faces, only the soft crackle of the flames and the soft lapping of the water around them, telling frightening stories was inevitable.

Jack and Clarence knew the most, but Rose was always willing to make up a new one. Samantha listened eagerly, enjoying the child that went down her spine, but she didn't like telling them. The ones she made-up scared more than the ones she hard. Later on, lying in bed, she would always listen for the approach of whatever foul creature she had conjured. Cal never told any. He sat and listened, seldom changing expression or commenting. The others encouraged him to join in, but he refused. He liked listening even if he didn't want to admit it. He knew it had been decades since he used his imagination, and he feared it no longer worked. Nothing he could tell would compare to what the others told, and he couldn't bear the thought of proving himself inadequate at something so simple.

"Alright," Jack began. "My turn." They all leaned forward, even Cal. "This is a true story."

Rose rolled her eyes. "Sure it is," she teased. "All your stories are true."

"Some of them are," he said. "And this is one of 'em. My father told me this story. It happened a long time ago, when he was a kid. There was this guy who lived way out in the woods, all by himself, except for three or four hunting dogs. He was mean and stingy. No-one in his family spoke to him, and he didn't speak to anyone unless he had to. He only came into town a few times a year for supplies. The last time anyone saw him was the same spring that the disappearances started."

Samantha's eyes were wide. "Disappearances?" she said.

"Yeah," Jack continued. "At first, it was small animals, dogs, cats, chickens, that sort of thing, but then bigger animals started going missing. A whole cow just vanished—" He snapped his fingers. "Like that." A collective shiver ran through the group. "So, anyway, that night this guy goes home. He's making dinner, and that's when he heard it." Jack paused. "Scritch—scratch," he said softly. "Scritch-scratch."

"What was it?" Rose blurted out.

Jack grinned. "I'm getting there. He looked around, but he didn't see anything. And then, he heard it again, louder this time. Scritch-scratch. Scritch-scratch." Jack's tone shifted. "And again. Whatever it was, it was in the kitchen with him."

Cal spoke before he could stop himself. "I've heard this one," he said. Each pair of eyes turned toward him, startled by his voice. Self-conscious now, he shrank under their combined gaze. "Well, I have," he said. "It isn't true."

"Oh, that doesn't matter," Rose said, not unpleasantly. "We know it isn't."

"You don't know that," Jack argued. "It could be. My father really did tell it to me."

"And how did he learn all the details?" Rose asked. "Did the man tell him?"

"Well no. I dunno," Jack said. "That's not the point."

"Just go on. Finish it," Clarence urged. "We might as well hear the rest."

"Alright," Jack agreed. "So, anyway, the sound kept getting louder and louder…."

…..

Rose slept soundly next to him, but Jack was wide away. He started up at the stars through the sky light. Cal had been silent for the rest of the evening, but the fact that he had spoken at all made Jack wonder if Rose wasn't right after all. Perhaps he would respond to one of them. Perhaps he could be helped. There was certainly no reason not to try, but what would he say? He couldn't pretend to know what Cal was going through. Sure, his life had changed, possibly forever, but he had everything he needed with him. As long as no major calamity befell them, he would be fine.

He would find a substitute for paper and keep drawing. He didn't mind being outdoors all the time, and he liked seafood. It was so expensive they'd rarely eaten it before; now they could have all they wanted. And most importantly, he had Rose. He snuggled up to her back, encircling her with his arm. How could he, a person who was so adaptable, so easy to make happy, convince Cal, one of the most rigid, demanding people he'd ever met, to accept his life as it was and find a way to be happy?

…

Meanwhile, on the other side of the island, Smith and Thomas had constructed a settlement of their own, although it wasn't as impressive. They only had one hurt, and it was more of a lean-to, even though they called it a hut. They collected leaves and palm fronds to make beds. They fashioned crude fish hooks and used vines for fishing line. They found fresh water, but theirs was only a small stream. They spent their days alternating between napping in the sun and being bored stiff.

Finally, Thomas looked over at Smith and declared, "I've had enough of this."

Smith was puzzled through his sleepiness. "Enough of what?"

"Of this!" Thomas cried. "We should be doing something!"

Smith yawned. "What do you want us to do?"

"I don't know. We can't get off the island, obviously, but maybe there's a better part."

"I like this part fine," Smith replied. "One part's probably as good as any other."

"Don't be a fool," Thomas snapped. "There's bound to be a better part. We just have to find it."

Smith shrugged. "If you say so."

"I do." Thomas had managed to keep the knife he always carried in his pocket. "But we'll need protection," he went on. "Gather some sturdy sticks."

"What for?"

Thomas's eyes glittered. "We're going to make spears."

AN: If you've never heard the story Jack's telling, here's a link to one version of it. watch?v=_aju3QhTDbU
I grew up hearing variations of it, all of which were touted as "true."