It was dark, the waves crashing against the bleak shore seeming tranquil and distant compared to what they had endured for the past week or so. It was difficult to determine exactly how long they had been confined to the damp cave, time seemed to be of little importance on a deserted island, people appeared to be more interested in what you put into the time.

For Sawyer, this usually consisted of the meaningful art of sleeping. But not lately. His bones often ached, and he could put on a brave face when he was being watched, but he had to admit, the lightning strike had taken a lot out of him.

However, if he had let his mind stray just for one moment from his own personal misfortune, he may have realized just how unbelievably lucky he had been. And started to think about it…

The cave was too dark, and it stank of sweat, rotting meat and fruit and other unmentionable odors that derive from forty-eight castaways living in a cramped space for over a week without so much as a deodorant stick.

He had to get out, the cave was choking him. Still half asleep, and eyes partially closed, Sawyer clawed at the rock with his hands, pulling himself upright.

He slowly opened his eyes as the mist began to clear from his brain. Stumbling towards the cave mouth, he was barely aware of what he was doing, but actually thinking about the cave's claustrophobic effect had made it even more apparent.

His head was still clouded with the hazy blur of sleep, but something was different, he was sure of it. Or the same. He wasn't sure, but the déjà vu creeping up his spine had to mean something…

It had stopped raining.

The thought hit him full on and the impact was enough to finish waking him up. Finally, after no less than seven days, the rain had stopped.

The sky was clear, showing off the stars and the half-crescent moon. The air smelt fresh and strong, as it did after a storm. The leaves of the plants still bore jewel-like dew drops and the ground held about as much support as a bowl of oatmeal. Even now the rain had stopped there would be no leaving the cave for at least a couple more days, unless living at the bottom of a muddy swamp appealed to you.

Sawyer turned around, considering trying to re-invite the sweet bliss of sleep that he had so longed for since his life had almost been taken from him. The cave looked dark and uninviting, especially compared to the serene moonlit jungle which contrasted it.

A large boulder caught his attention as he turned his focus away from the cave mouth. It had a flat top much like the one down by the beach. He wasn't surprised he hadn't noticed this one before; when had he willingly paid a visit to Cavetown?

The boulder was close enough for him to scramble on if he tried. Sawyer looked anxiously at the forest floor. Perhaps he was overreacting, but the tales he had heard about quicksand… was there such a thing as quick mud?

Hell, the times he had wished for the ground to swallow him up whole, with the amount of rain this mud had gotten, it might do just that, unless he was careful.

A few minutes later he had managed to seat himself firmly on the boulder, on which he planned to stay until the sun came up. Not that it would make much of a difference; the moonlight was bright enough to read by. Which reminded him…

He sighed heavily. His books would probably be reduced to a papier-mâché like pulp. Now he had absolutely nothing to take his mind off their predicament.

Perhaps if he had a pen and a notepad, he would write his own stories instead of reading someone else's.

Yeah, he could keep a journal of everything that happened on the island and then, so long as they didn't rot on this godforsaken spit of land, he could sell it once he got back to the states. It would be worth a lot, after all, they'd be famous, of course. The courageous survivors of the ill-fated Oceanic Flight 815, returned to civilization after living on a deserted island in the middle of nowhere for god knows how long - how could they not be rolling in it?

Or perhaps, instead of re-writing Treasure Island, he could invent a completely fictional story, make up the characters, events, entire storyline. That would be sure to keep him busy for hours.

Realizing how uncharacteristic these thoughts were, he almost laughed out loud. Back home, he hardly ever picked up a pen (apart from 'official' business) let alone put it to paper and make words. Writing had never been his forte.

Recalling a part of his dream a few nights ago made him struggle even harder to remain silent. Even in his subconscious, he had been right; it really was amazing what people would do when they were bored enough.