The coconut lay on the ground, between his legs, like a problem that wouldn't go away just because he was hungry.
He looked at it.
Turned the coconut over with his hands, feeling the rough, fibrous shell—too hard for small nails. He tried pressing with his fingers, as if that might accomplish something. It didn't.
"Obviously…" he muttered.
He looked around the hut, even though he already knew there was nothing new there. The cloth. The bowl. The floor. The walls. Nothing cut. Nothing broke.
The knife wasn't there.
It hadn't been since that night.
The memory passed quickly, but it left a bad taste in his mouth. He pushed it to the back of his head and focused on the now.
It has to break.
He left the hut again, clutching the coconut against his chest. The sun was already higher, and the heat was beginning to rise from the ground. Outside, he scanned the ground carefully, looking for something specific.
A rock.
Not just any rock.
A big one. Heavy. One that wouldn't move easily.
He found one near a thick root, half-buried. He tried pushing it with his foot. It didn't budge.
Good.
He placed the coconut on the rock. Lifted it slightly. Looked around, as if someone might appear just to laugh at him trying to open food.
No one.
He raised the coconut and struck it against the stone.
Tock.
Nothing.
He hit it again, harder.
Tock.
The impact ran up his arms, making his fingers tingle.
"Fuck…" he whispered, shaking his hands.
He tried a different angle. Turned the coconut. Hit it again.
Tock.
A small crack appeared.
His heart jumped.
"Come on…" he said softly, as if talking to the coconut.
He struck it again. And again. The sound changed. Drier. Hollower.
Until the shell gave way with a louder crack.
He stopped.
Breathed.
Looked.
The opening wasn't pretty. Or clean. But it was enough. A fresh smell escaped—different from the stale water he had drunk before. Sweeter. More alive.
He knelt on the ground, brought his face closer, and carefully tilted the coconut, pouring the water into the bowl.
The water was clear. A little cloudy, but clean enough. He drank slowly, afraid to waste it.
The first swallow went down cold, spreading a good feeling through his chest. The second was faster. The third, almost urgent.
He stopped before it was gone.
He'd learned that early: never drink it all at once.
He ran his tongue over his lips, tasting the faint, almost sweet flavor.
Better, he thought.
Much better.
Now came the hardest part.
Scraping.
He grabbed the coconut shard—the one he used as an improvised tool—and pushed it into the opening. The white flesh resisted at first, then gave way in uneven flakes.
He scraped slowly, focused, pulling small pieces so he wouldn't break everything at once. He put them straight into his mouth.
The taste was simple. Not exactly good. But it was food.
He chewed slowly, feeling the fibrous texture stick to his teeth. His stomach responded almost immediately, relaxing a little.
The hunger didn't disappear.
But it eased.
He kept going.
Scrape. Eat. Pause. Breathe.
His arms ached. His fingers grew slippery with coconut oil. He wiped them on his legs, not caring.
At some point, he realized he was shaking less.
The world felt a little more solid.
When he'd finished a good portion of the coconut, he stopped. Looked at what was left. There was still plenty. He stored it carefully inside the hut, away from direct sunlight.
He sat on the ground.
Leaned his back against the wall.
Took a deep breath.
The hunger was still there, like a hollow bottom. But it wasn't screaming anymore. The thirst was gone.
I can hold on… he thought.
He looked at the other coconuts, lined up in the corner.
Four meals.
Not four days of comfort. But four moments of not dying.
For now, that was enough.
He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling his body heavy, but working.
Making do.
That was what he had done.
And in that world, that was already a lot.