DAY 4

I can't move. I can't swallow easily. My lips feel cracked. My eyes are so dry they hurt to blink. Shooting pains radiate from my back but that's nothing compared to my ankle, which is presently the size of a house. Not a small house, either. One of those nice ones in the Hamptons.

I own a lovely house in the Hamptons. Two stories, excellent aspect, modern facilities. Like my spa bath. Ten jets, if I recall. I'd give everything I own to be there right now. I'd swap it for Runway. I would. And I'd insist on a clause, in whatever Faustian deal I'm making with the devil to get me there, that Andrea can come too. She really needs to partake in a bath right now.

As do I.

A rinse in the ocean would work too, I suppose, but I can't face the walk back down to the beach. Not just because of my injuries which, as of today, have rendered me weaker than Irv's spine. It's too close to… it's forever tainted now.

I peer up at the empty heavens. Is rain too much to ask for?

What I wouldn't do for some water. If I'm bad, Andrea must be worse; she had considerably less to drink on the plane than I did.

Rolling over, I look at her. It takes a moment for my eyes to focus.

She lies beside the fire, where I left her last night. She hasn't moved an inch. I frown. Is that good or bad, medically speaking? Maybe I should try talking to her again? They say that, don't they? That it helps?

We haven't spoken since…since I saw the other passengers. I'd have been obliged to lie to make her feel better, even if it's only to unconscious-her. I can't look at that trusting face and tell her everything will be all right.

How can it be? How can anything be all right ever again? I ended a life to save hers, as surely as if I'd placed my hand over a little boy's mouth and left it there.

She must never know. The guilt would kill her, the way it's killing me.

I blow out a sharp breath.

My bladder prods at me again. I've been ignoring it for two hours. Frankly, it's ridiculous how the human body keeps trying to rid itself of fluid when I'm so desperate for it. Besides, I'm not entirely sure I can move.

Ten minutes pass. Then fifteen.

Fine then.

Rolling over onto my knees, I stagger to my abused feet, and shuffle over to the small copse of bushes that I've decided will be our new bathroom facilities. Highly luxurious. Only the best. Compact dirt floors, exceptional views. Washing-up facilities optional.

My mouth makes a small, pathetic noise at the reminder of water.

I let nature take its course, unimpressed to discover obvious proof my dehydration has become as bad as Andrea's. I wonder at my lack of fear at this latest turn of events. But what's the point? I'll be dead soon. All this indignity, pain, despair, and hideous guilt will be for nothing. All I'm doing is prolonging the inevitable.

There's little doubt we should have been found by now. Andrea should be safely in the care of doctors, prattling on to her mother and brother. I should be with my girls before returning to my empire, terrorizing clackers, and reminding my art director that his lack of social life is a sign he's a professional success. That is how I stopped Nigel quitting the last three times.

Instead, clearly due to someone's incompetence, I'm here. We're here.

That part's my fault.

Damn it. Standing with a great deal of effort, I fumble, and return my pants to good order. In the process, my ankle protests and I stagger forward, barely catching myself from falling.

Fabulous. I now embody the grace of a drunken ex-child star. I suppose I'm fortunate I was able to cope yesterday, when Andrea…when I was required. How would I handle things if a crisis struck today? Would I lie about, making small sympathetic noises while Andrea died in front of me?

My chest tightens at the thought. Biting my lip, my gaze shifts back to Andrea, limp, like a puppet with her strings cut.

Is she paler? Grayer? Maybe? Her eyes seem sunken. I haul myself back over to her side, and jerk down the zip on her skirt, pulling it away from the jeans bandage.

I choke. The smell hits me first. The bandage is soaked through with blood. I peel it back. Oh hell. That does not look even close to good. It's angry, nasty, vicious looking. I wouldn't wish this grotesque injury even on Irv, and I've wished that man a great many evils in my time. It's not all just blood, either. The wound is not clean. That much is obvious.

How could I have forgotten something so basic? I know my mind has been hazy at times, a little…dizzy...distracted...but this is basic wound care.

I slump back, staring in horror at that awful injury. It's far worse than I'd left it. How smug did I feel, explaining to Andrea how running a magazine and surviving an island could be similar concepts. Clearly, I don't have a clue what I'm doing. I'm just some entitled, arrogant fashion magazine executive whose ego has yet again been running rampant.

Karma. I don't tend to believe in it, but it does feel apt.

What on earth else can go wrong? What else can mock me when I'm at my lowest, and remind me of how little I can do?

Moments later a tell-tale smell reaches my nose from below Andrea's waist.

Of course.

I glare at the skies. Charming.

A few other words may have slipped out after that.

"I regret my outburst earlier, Andrea," I tell her quietly. I've sufficiently calmed myself now to address the matter at hand, although it's getting steadily harder to focus on anything. The dizzy spells are increasing. Moving around camp is slow and painful, punctuated by many stops to rest.

"I didn't mean to take out my mood on you. I wasn't even aware I still remembered half of those words." I smirk, just a little, until my cracked lips protest. "Would you like to hear a secret? Nigel and I both had a considerably earthier side in the eighties. Usually it came out after deadline had passed and we found ourselves at the Oak Tavern. It's not there anymore, but it was a lot of fun. You'd be shocked at what we used to get up to."

The memories flood me of good times with my oldest friend, when we were younger and more foolish. He never said a word when he caught me once hungrily staring at a statuesque woman draped against a bar. I never said a word when he disappeared into the back alley with the dapper bar tender for twenty minutes to "smoke". We both knew Nigel never smokes.

I was more careful after that. Not everyone is unobservant, nor discreet. Besides, if I never spoke of it, did it even happen? Like trees falling in the woods?

More merry self delusion.

I remember wanting that woman with a sharpness I'd never experienced before, and it shocked me to the core. I stopped drinking with my observant young art director after that. Besides, it was time. I had to become La Priestly. No time for distractions of any kind when one's empire building. Our close friendship slipped a little as the years slid by. But I miss him. And I love him. I should have told him. Even once.

I'm doing it again. My ragged, dehydrated brain flits about, finding comfort in memories, easing me far from reality, preventing me from focusing.

I need water to clean with. This wound cannot be left as it is; nor can I ignore Andrea's hygiene. So, I also need something to hold water to get it to camp. Already I deeply regret my decision to relocate us so far from the beach. Maybe if I took some clothes, doused them in water, and wrung them out over Andrea when I…

A whirring noise sounds overhead, faint and mechanical. I crane my head, trying to see the source but clouds are blocking it. A plane?

A plane!

"We're here!" I shout, before I think of the absurdity of my actions. My voice comes out hoarse, faint, and strained. I jump to my feet. Pain explodes from my back and ankle as I irritate every abused part of my body at once. Nonetheless I wave at the heavens like a lunatic, before realizing the trees surrounding us, pathetic as they are, would block me from sight. I need to be seen in an open space.

The beach!

I attempt to run toward it but, unlike yesterday's adrenaline-filled sprint that was fueled by fear and terror, my body's just not having it. I lurch painfully from side to side, with little speed and even less balance, as I attempt to clamber down the path. Thighs shaking, body trembling, I reach the sand just as the mechanical noise fades out.

Damn it. I fall to my knees, too tired to move. Too tired to cry…or too dehydrated to. Now I have to get back up the hill, and I…

My eye catches something glinting in the water. I stagger back to my feet, and go closer. Easier said than done. I fall over twice, my legs are so wrung out.

It's part of the plane. A chunk of the wing? If that's there, what else might be?

I wade into the water, and despite the gentle waves this close to shore, I'm almost knocked off my feet. I've never felt weaker. At least, as I wade farther in, the water's buoyancy is doing some of the heavy lifting for me. Closer now, I can see torn edges and scorch marks on the wing's concave shape.

A larger wave washes it closer and knocks me clean off my feet. Breast-stroking toward it, I'm able to get a hand to it, and pivot it around in the water. It's so light. Aluminum? How unexpected. Definitely part of a wing. Snagged to its ragged underside is a pile of mangled debris. I spy seat cushions, a life vest, a waterlogged red high heel, and a crumpled cardboard box.

The box is stamped with a brand of a catering company's logo. My eyes widen. I snatch it, tugging it away from the jagged wing's torn metal, and float it back with me toward shore. My feverish brain is running through every form of food that airliners take on board.

It feels like being smacked down by gravity when I push myself off from the water's surface and crawl to shore with my precious cargo. Tearing at the box, which gives way in sodden lumps, my mouth is already trying to salivate, as my stomach growls.

Inside lies purple plastic bags of…potato crisps.

Salt and vinegar, to be exact. I gape at the sight. Is there actually a saltier product known to mankind? My stomach claws at me again and in that moment I don't care. I tear open the closest packet, scoop a handful of chips into my mouth, and chew like a woman possessed. I choke and cough immediately, having too little saliva to help it down. Christ. Slow down!

I try again, leaning forward on hands and knees, eating much, much slower and methodically. My eyes water as I fight to get this nutrition into my body, chewing and chewing endlessly, before I finally attempt to swallow.

Well nutrition is a loose definition for this.

After swallowing, I pause, fearful it will all come back up again. It's a close call but no. Exhaling, I nervously finish another handful and then lick the crumbs in the bag. Done, I sit back and eye the rest of the packets, doing my sums. How long can they last?

As I contemplate my brain's inability to do even the most rudimentary math now, a huge wave gets behind the wing and smashes it to the shoreline, before retreating.

I peer at it in surprise that it's parked itself there for me, mind turning over its possibilities. Surely it must have some value? Even if I can't figure what just yet.

Tugging it off the wet sand to higher ground, I'm astonished all over again by how lightweight it is. This could transport a great many items as a sled… if I had a great many items.

Involuntarily, my mind darts back to the cove, and the…remains. There could be supplies. Clothes. Food or even drink bottles tucked in pockets.

And Toby.

I don't want to see him again. I can't face it. It'd be better to just walk away.

So, that's what I'll do then. Drag my little box of food back to camp, and sit. And wait. And hope.

What about Andrea? She needs more than just hope right now.

My teeth grind.

She's here because of you. In case you've forgotten.

I'm too weak to deal with that. I can't go back there.

I can't do it. I won't.

Coward. You always hated facing an unpalatable truth.

I frown. What truth? I'm well aware we've been left for dead on an island with limited prospects of survival. What truth am I avoiding now?

A shimmer answers me, capturing my eye. In the distance, in front of the path to the cove around the bend, a line of passengers suddenly appear, ghoulish faces staring at me. They're in rags, bleeding, eyes sunken, thin, and distressed, barely human. They're staring at me accusingly.

What? I want to snarl at them and tell them to stop looking at me. They glare back, ruined bodies as broken as I feel.

I turn away in revulsion.

This can't be real. I'm here, I'm alive. I pinch myself to check, but barely feel the pain. What if…if all of this, everything, is a hallucination? A worse thought occurs.

Did I even rescue Andrea at all?

My head's swimming, I can't think straight. It does seem astonishing, now I think about it, that she, out of all 189 passengers and crew, was able to wash up in front of me. What are the odds of that? Impossible. My stomach sinks.

It is impossible.

But Andrea always did do the impossible, I remind myself. Hope struggles to get a claw-hold in my head.

What's real? I can't think.

Reluctantly, I lift my head again, twisting around to look at the part of the beach where I first found Andrea washed up, near death. To my horror, I see her body there, clearly outlined against the sand, broken and wet. A lump of dead flesh.

Oh! Oh God. I never saved her. She's…I stagger to my feet, trying to drag myself over to the body.

I have to see.

Have I been trying to save a hallucination for days? Someone I dreamed up because I feel so guilty? Because the bitter truth is too terrible?

I reach her body, bend over, and my hand slices through air. In a blink, she's gone. I turn around in shock. Gone, too, are the passengers guarding the cove.

I'm going insane. That has to be it. Madness. Lack of food and water.

My stomach growls. I'm dizzy. I stagger back along the beach to the plane wing and my sodden box of crisps. I reach for a second little bag, turning it over in my hands. Is this real? The weight of it under my fingers feels real enough. I open it and smell. The sharp vinegar, salty stench assails my nose and makes my eyes water. Real.

"You really thought a box of chips could just wash up while you were sitting on the beach feeling sorry for yourself?" Andrea asks.

I start. My heart's racing, but then it has been for two days. "Why not?" I reply, taking a crisp, trying to sound unmoved. The potato crisp crumbles in my dry mouth and I try not to cough. "You did."

"What if I told you a secret?" Andrea drawls. "You're unconscious in the cove with those corpses. You'd know that if you'd even bothered to look properly at the bodies. But no, not you. You never paid them the respect they're due. Didn't lay them out the way you did Toby and Derrick. No, you took what you wanted from them, then treated them like they weren't even there. How's that decent? You know you're not a good person, Miranda. Always take, take, take with you. I know. You used me until you took even my life. So this, all of this," she waves at herself, "is just your way of making you feel better."

I stare at her. "I wouldn't imagine any of this to make me feel better."

"No, you'd imagine me by your side in your little camp. You being the hero, saving me over and over. When the opposite's true. You know the truth, don't you? I'm dead. And you killed me, just like that boy."

She disappears.

My head's fuzzy and warm. Shakily, I try to stand. If my unconscious body is really in that cove, if my existence now is just a delusion, there's one way to find out. And if I'm not there, Andrea needs my help. Either way, I'm going.

Glancing at the plane wing, I see the sled it could be. My smile is grim and cold as I push my terrors aside.

Andrea needs me.

It takes a few hours. I try not to think too hard about the details. All the bodies have been assessed. Searched. Laid out. One thing I know for sure, is I'm not among them and neither is Andrea. So, she's back at camp. She has to be, I tell myself. I refuse to believe all of this is some grotesque delusion my fevered imagination has dreamt up. If it was, it wouldn't smell this bad.

No. I'm not going to throw up again. What a waste of crisps that was.

Focus. Duty. Get it done.

I have a small but growing pile of resources on the middle of the wing that I'll haul back up to the site. I'm doing this by rote, disassociating as I work. That way I don't see them as people, don't notice the smell, or that they're starting to look…

All it takes is determination…and the mini whisky bottle from the elderly man's pants pocket didn't hurt either. I dared to have three sips before my head swam alarmingly. I'll save the rest for Andrea. Her wound needs it more than I do.

I have quite the haul. How much is useful, I'm not sure. But the plastic shopping bags are a godsend. I've filled them all with sea water, knotted them, put them on my pile, along with the rest of my bounty, and am ready to head back.

Glancing back at the passengers, I eye them, row by row. They're laid out, as dignified as I could manage. I refused to even look at Toby or Derrick. It's bad enough both were in my nightmares last night, begging for help.

I should say something. Many of these people believed in…something. But I can't think of anything. That requires hope, which I'm lacking, belief, which I never had, and goodness, which apparently I'm also sorely without. Grimacing, I instead give them all one final glance.

"Thanks," is all I can think to say. "Thanks." I say it softer this time, and can't bear to look anymore. Tugging at the wing, which I've now affixed with a lead rope made of knotted together men's ties, I pull away from this disturbing place of death.

I refuse to be back here again. I hope they rest in peace.

Unable to stop myself, though, I take one final look back at Toby.

Hell. I really wish I hadn't. The roar of the ocean seems louder now; it's probably an illusion. I appreciate it drowning out my thoughts.

I'm halfway up the incline, tugging slowly on the wing, when I make the mistake of looking over my left shoulder to the beach.

Washed up on the shore, right where I first found her, is Andrea's drowned body.

It's not her.

She's not real.

Andrea's back by the camp. She needs my help.

Focus, damn it. I try to remember the Thakoon Spring '07 line-up, working my way from the whites to the dusky pinks, forcing myself to scrape my memories over the shape of the outfits to anchor myself. That was real, I know that much. How could I forget that Big Bird-colored monstrosity of a sundress he'd thrown in at the end like a playful afterthought. I snort. Was it to check we were still awake?

My eye falls to a jagged rock pile, dark red smeared across it and my amusement dies. Andrea is lying on it, crumpled, her sightless eyes staring up at me. How did she get back down here? Alarm fills me. Did she ever leave? Is that when the hallucinations began?

Leaning forward to touch her skin, my hand sinks right through her.

Oh God. I can't take much more of this. I kneel on the ground, staring at this body, this woman, who is not real.

"She's who you chose to save over me?" Toby says, suddenly appearing beside me. His red cap looks unnaturally bright.

"You're not real."

"You could have saved me. I'm younger and stronger. But you let me die. Like her."

"She's not dead," I want to scream at him. "She's not!"

"Soon." He says it sadly.

Furiously, I climb back to my feet, determined to prove him wrong. I sway for a few moments, weak and useless. But I'm not dead yet either. I glare at him. "No. Besides, you're not real."

I ignore him, but he walks back with me anyway. At least he doesn't speak again.

Half an hour later, I crest the rise and see camp. There's a bright red cap perched on a stick where I left it earlier. A cap that can't be in two places at once.

"See?" I tell him, glaring at the identical cap on his head.

"It won't make any difference." Toby shrugs. "You'll kill her with your bad medicine."

He's gone.

He might be right.

It's taken the rest of the day, given my current pace and physical abilities, but I've squared away the wing on the far side of camp, behind where Andrea is lying. I've cleaned her wound, sliced up several pairs of jeans' legs to give her multiple bandage options later, and reapplied the dressing. Her skirt and underthings are yet again flapping in the wind, while Derrick's jacket protects her dignity.

And I'm sorting out clothing and supplies, behind the wing; angling the piles so the contents aren't visible should Andrea awake again. She doesn't need to see passenger possessions. That would lead to questions. And I'm not keen on lies.

Not even to myself anymore.

Andrea woke briefly. I fed her lightly whisky-soaked mashed potato crisps, which she was able to swallow before she passed out again. I've also spied some berry bushes on the far side of camp. I'd noticed them before but wrongly thought the berries were flowers.

Are they edible? If so, things are looking up. I've given a handful a try. If they pass muster, and I live to tell the tale, I'll incorporate them into our extensive island-vacation diet.

"See, Andrea?" I tell her. "We've already doubled our pantry. Crisps and berries."

She doesn't reply.

I've returned to ordering the retrieved clothing, relieved to give my mind a focus. It's a little like working in the Closet. Which is fair, since Nigel has arrived to help me sort it.

I like to think my old friend is an active hallucination, one I've freely conjured up because I miss him, not because I can't stop myself from seeing him.

"Stripes or pastels?" I repeat back to him, as he prods my second-hand T-shirts collection with an inquisitive finger. It's funny how he looks much younger; like back when we met each other and I lured him away from a designing career. "What an absurd question. Neither's ever been out of fashion or in fashion. It's the poultice for the masses."

He snorts. "Poultice? Can you hear yourself, M?"

I roll my eyes but lean forward. "How do you make a poultice?" I ask. I lower my voice so my unconscious assistant won't hear. "Do you think it might help Andrea? Between you and me, I'm worried about her wound."

"Miranda," Nigel smiles as if it's self evident. "You make it from silkworms. Like a good Versace."

"Of course," I tell him. "Of course."

Somehow that makes perfect sense.

DAY FIVE

Andrea's injury is starting to close. Well, at least enough that I'm going to try an experiment of leaving it unbandaged. Maybe it needs sunlight now for proper healing? She's still asleep.

The berries didn't kill either of us. We've been eating them off and on. Andrea gets them in a paste form in the rare moments she comes to. Twice she's been conscious long enough for me to pick her up by the belt loops and haul her to our luxury bathroom and, with my brief assistance with her clothes, able to finish her business without any need for me to press my burgeoning laundromat skills into action again.

Small mercies.

She says nothing at all during these times. I'm not sure she's aware that she's awake. Surely she must be, though? Not that it matters because, soon enough, she's back in her own world, unconscious again.

I wonder where does she go in that dream-state of hers? Is she at home, watching some favorite show with friends? Or maybe she dreams she's still at work, diligently running after my coffees and scarves?

I'm right here, I want to tell her. You can please your boss by joining me in the present, if that's not too much trouble.

Apparently it is, because all she seems to do is sleep.

I'm so thirsty. Water's all I think about now. Well, water and guilt.

It's hard to look at Andrea for too long. All I see is how her condition is my fault. My choices led us here.

Then there's the choice I made that cost a beautiful boy his life.

The more I think about things, the lower I feel. Sometimes I think it might be easier to close my eyes and just not wake up. Not thinking sounds like bliss, right now. Maybe I should try that?

The first splotch doesn't feel real. It's like a fly landing on me. It takes a moment to realize I haven't seen flies or any insects out here, so it can't be that. My eyes flash open, just as the heavens start to open up.

Rain!

In disbelief I discover the skies have gone black since I've been dozing. A sharp crack of thunder booms around us. Drinking water! Scrambling to my feet, I head to all the bags hanging off trees and the plane wing, dumping out the salt water. I open their mouths like waiting baby birds, and watch with satisfaction as hastening plops of water hit the plastic.

"Andrea!" I call to her, desperate for her to share in this. She needs to drink. More than that she needs to share a moment of joy.

The light spitting rain turns into a sudden deluge.

Oh, it's bliss.

I gulp in mouthfuls, run my fingers through my hair, washing it, soaking it up. I strip off my clothes, having an impromptu shower, rubbing my skin, then stretching out my arms, feeling cleaner than I have in days.

The sensation is delicious. Sublime.

Andrea should experience this. I glance at her. Actually, she's in desperate need of it.

Crouching beside her, I quickly strip her naked, trying my best to avert my eyes. "I do apologize, Andrea, but cleanliness is next to…next to bliss," I whisper.

Leaving her nude to enjoy the heavens and rinse off a layer of dirt, I walk slowly about camp, eyes barely open, soaking in the experience. After ten minutes, I return, roll her to her side, hoping she doesn't feel like a rotisserie chicken. "Backs and sides need to be clean too," I explain, hoping I sound officious, like a nurse.

Sitting beside her, as the rain sluices off her skin and mine, I talk, my gaze pointedly into the distance.

"When I was a little girl," I tell her, "my mother said I hated clothing. I'm well aware how funny that is now. But she swore it was true. I was always shucking off my clothes at age three and four, and doing nude runs through the house, embarrassing everyone, especially if there were guests. I didn't understand the point of clothes. Isn't that ironic?"

I glance at her eyes, which are still closed, the lashes glistening under the rain. "Much the way you didn't understand the point of fashion when we met. Oh, I saw it in your eyes, Andrea. I was a joke. Everything I stood for was beneath you. Frivolous." I return my stare to the horizon. "I'm not without some sympathy for your position. I always knew it came from a place of ignorance. You have since educated yourself. As I did." I smile at the memory. "You have more than educated yourself, of course; you have been sublimely acceptable. Better even than Emily was as my assistant."

I roll her over to the other side, to get the full shower experience. She's facing away this time, her adorable backside in my view.

"Why are you better than Emily, you ask?" I continue, snapping my gaze somewhere safe. "Well, Emily is devoted to me, to Runway, and to fashion. She's everything I should want in an assistant, yes?" I nod to myself. "I used to think so too. But there's something so addictive about showing someone who doesn't believe, who doesn't understand, the beauty of my world. To see the wonder grow in their eyes as they slowly start to see. In truth, I have been loving watching you falling in love with fashion. That's just between us, though, Andrea. I wouldn't share that with a soul. People use weakness against others in this world. But, honestly, you are, at times, my weakness."

Sadness fills me at that thought. I've hurt someone I secretly care about. Someone good and kind and dedicated who has come to mean a great deal to me.

The rain is starting to ease off. Rubbing my eyes, I glance over at her then ease her onto her back, to give her wound a quick inspection. It still seems closed. That's progress. I don't like its color, though. "I'm expecting better from you," I tell her sternly. "More healing, less lolling around enjoying midday showers."

I lay Derek's jacket on the ground and ease myself onto it, letting the sun peering out from behind bruised clouds dry us off.

After awhile, the brightness starts to drill into my eyes. I'm half tempted to don Toby's hat but that doesn't sit right. The thought makes my stomach churn. Besides, I've been saving it for use as a cup. It's probably full now. Next time, when Andrea wakes, I'll give her a sip. "Fresh water, Andrea," I nudge her. "Won't that be lovely?"

She sleeps on.

When we're both dry, I slip her clothes on, murmuring a small apology that she's gone through this, promising I will be in denial about all of it. "This never happened," I assure her and mean it. I dress myself. I'm resettled beside her, about to doze off again when she stirs.

Instantly I'm kneeling beside her. "Drink," I order her.

She obeys, barely registering my existence.

"Maybe you'd like to wake up now?" I give her a hopeful look.

Ignoring me, she falls back to sleep.

Well, it doesn't matter. As long as she's alive, and we have water, crisps and berries, all is well. At least for now.

DAY SIX

A sharp scream shakes me awake from another brooding nightmare. I'm relieved as Toby's accusing, sad eyes flash out of existence and instead I see Andrea not only awake, but standing. She's near the fire, almost doubled over, hands over her wound, staring at blood now oozing onto her fingers and down her skirt in astonishment.

"Andrea!" I hiss in horror. Propping myself up on elbows, I glare at her. How could she be so foolish to tear at her wound like that?

She drops to the ground, rolls onto her back and looks at me, offering a pained "Nnn."

Oh. She didn't know she was wounded. I remember now. Still. She might have looked first before trying to stand, especially after so many days without using her legs unassisted.

My gaze scrapes along the bloodied trail behind her back to where she'd been lying. Her agonized foetal position won't be helped by the lack of pillow.

Tugging Derrick's jacket back into its usual place under her head, I try to sort through my wash of emotions. Relief, fear, guilt, now dismay. "Finally awake and in two seconds, you've ruined everything I've done." My shadow blots out the sun as I crouch over her.

She whimpers, clasping her hands to her stomach, so I can't get a good look at the wound. "Stop fussing," I tell her, impatient to see how much damage there is. When her hands fall to her side, I wrench up her shirt to her lower ribs, tug down her skirt to the top of her waist, and get a good look.

Broken sobs greet me, but I force myself to block them out as I focus on that now reopened gash. The crust that had been forming is a distant memory. Damn it. Her acute distress registers, clawing its way inside my thoughts. I calm my tone to gentle. "You ripped it," I explain. "I really wish you hadn't, Andrea. Now what are we going to do, hmm?"

Her reply is a high-pitched, moaning whine.

Back to the bandages, then. I shuffle to the wing and its "Closet" beyond, fishing out a jeans leg. Returning, I efficiently affix it to her waist, before tugging the skirt back up, zipping and buttoning it, to hold it in place. I talk as I carry out this familiar task, saying soothing things until the agony in her wide eyes starts to fade and her expression evens out. Tears, however, are falling freely.

She must hate being seen in this condition. I would. Denial is the best option. We'll just pretend. Andrea is not silently sobbing as if her heart has been shredded. And I haven't had to see her at her lowest nor do embarrassingly personal things that we'll never discuss.

Patting her arm, I settle back, giving Andrea her space to grieve or adapt or whatever's occurring beside me. "Let's allow it to keep healing this time, and not tear it by moving around," I say. Silence greets me. "Are you going to say anything to me today, Andrea?"

I try to keep the desperation of my question from my voice. I think I succeed.

"Nnn," she looks down, away from me, as though she can't even bear me looking at her.

Oh. Of course, she remembers now. Why she's here, bleeding, hungry, and miserable. I suppose that follows. I am to blame, she's quite right. But as long as she can stay with me, conscious, present, that will be enough. I will take anything else she flings at me. If she can just stay, that will be everything. "Are you going to stay awake today?" I ask tentatively.

She gives me such a baffled look that I meander back over my question.

It wasn't a difficult question, was it?

Instead of answering, her eyelids start to droop.

"Please stay awake," I beg her quietly. Please.

Her confused look sinks away into nothingness. She's unconscious again.

I take her hand, my thumb warming her skin, connecting with it, acknowledging the thud of her pulse, and try to go back to sleep.

I wake an hour or so later feeling better than I have for three days. Andrea's still unconscious. Glancing around, I do a stocktake. We have water still. Quite a lot of it for now. There are berries and one packet of crisps left. I'll save that. It's for Andrea. As a reward if she can actually manage to stay with me next time. Incentive, perhaps?

The plane that flew over has been weighing on my mind. I had no way to signal it. What if it comes back? What I needed was a beacon. Something to light should that hum reverberate through the skies once more.

By late afternoon, I've created two signals. One beacon pile of wood and kindling on the beach, next to a HELP message, spelled out in rocks. The other's not far from camp, the highest point I can easily reach. It was an odd experience, finding the wood for these piles. For a start, the trees here are peculiar. Branches start halfway up, and trunks are all smooth like someone's rubbed them down with sandpaper and oil. Each day I find fewer branches and have to travel farther afield. Eventually, I'll surely run out.

Andrea is still asleep so I'm rearranging the "Closet" with Nigel. T-shirts to the left; jean pants in little rolls to the right.

Giving up after a while, I go and sit beside my assistant. "It's almost dusk, Andrea. Another day in paradise. I must say the customer service at our rustic resort leaves a bit to be desired. Perhaps we should go and remind the manager who we are?"

I said 'we' again. I've been doing that lately. My life has gone from 'me' and 'my' to 'we' and 'our'. It's an odd thing for someone like me, so used to deciding everything in the singular. Even when I was married I couldn't resist doing it. No wonder Stephen hated me. I rarely let him have his way on anything.

But now, now when I have someone who wouldn't care what I chose to do, I find myself consulting her often. Checking with her. And, crucially, describing her as part of me.

It's a survivor thing, I suppose. That sense we're all in it together. I've read stories about this condition. During World War II when the bombs dropped on London, as horrific as it was for the populace, it united the people in a way nothing had before or since.

So, Andrea, is now that to me. Someone to survive end times with. Someone beyond even friendship. "How do you like that?" I ask her curiously, when I tell her. "I suspect you'll get quite a swelled head if I say any more, so let's just leave it at that."

I study her for a while, taking in the paleness of her skin. I wish, so much these days, I could just see those eyes, bright and focused on mine. Have her conscious for longer than five minutes and aware of her surroundings beyond an ability to swallow a reddish paste of berries or to achieve a successful 'bathroom' visit with me hauling her there and back.

"Where are you, Andrea?" I ask.

I want my assistant back. That sounds selfish. Besides, it's not just my assistant who I want back. It's Andrea.

Guilt lances me yet again. She must truly despise me.

Oh. Now I see.

No wonder she prefers sleep.