Last night brought a tempest of a storm to their tiny island, though it wasn't unusual for them to endure it. The three of them resumed their duties throughout the night and well into the morning, examining the exterior of the house for possible splintered wood or ruined paint jobs. When they saw that the house sat as it did before, they continued to check its perimeters, heading down toward the rocks for any debris that might've washed ashore. Fergus, however, remained behind to continue a sweep of the house while he and Rick went onward.
From a distance, they did see something peculiar in the waters closest to the rocks, floating but stagnant, which led them to this specific spot above the sea where a mess of snapped wood planks littered the rocky surface. And there, in the middle of the ruins, keeping afloat in the shallow water, was a boy, his eyes closed as if he were dead yet his body had not bloated nor his skin turned blue. There was only one way to get down there safely, so Treville volunteered to go, walking down the grassy path, around heaps of stone that were stubbornly set in the earth, to the rocky shore where the sea was loudest, though its waves gently lapped against the crude faces of the rocks.
Treville checked to see if the boy was alive by leaning forward, his ear close to the boy's mouth and then listening for the sound of breathing or, easier still, the warmth of his breath against his skin. It was faint, but it was there. So, without hesitation, he scooped the boy up into his arms with some difficulty, casting a glance upward at Rick who was forced to wait above just in case something happened to Treville down below, then waved to indicate that all would be well. Treville managed the walk back where Rick met him halfway, taking hold of the boy's ankles to allow Treville the weight of the boy's shoulders. They carried him into the house.
Fergus brought a blanket and Rick took it to wrap around the boy, keeping him warm in the bed that they'd placed him in. Though his skin hadn't turned blue, he was colder than ice, the tips of his fingers wrinkled by the time spent in the water, his face slick even though he'd been dried. "Leave me with him." They left the room, and Treville sat in a wood chair next to the bed, his hand on the boy's shoulder, a reassuring gesture filled with the hope that he'd wake up soon and tell them what had happened. Until then, he'd sit here in this chair at an allotted time and wait for him to wake up, the three of them taking turns for the sanity of the boy, so he wouldn't be alone.
