By late afternoon, the sky had turned copper.
Ethan and Lena had moved to the far end of the beach, away from the main survivor group. Wind came in hard from the water, carrying salt, damp air, and the smell of rotting seaweed.
They had almost nothing.
One lighter.
A few half-wet snacks.
Two bottles with less than a liter of water total.
A backpack full of "maybe useful."
Night would decide whether they were survivors or bodies.
Ethan dropped to one knee and started building a fire pit.
Not just a pile of wood.
A system.
He dug a shallow basin in the sand, lined the edges with stones, and left two narrow gaps for airflow. Then he stacked dry driftwood in a loose cone and slid thinner twigs inside.
Lena watched, arms wrapped around herself. "You've done this before?"
"Camping when I was a kid," Ethan said. "And too many bad decisions in college."
She gave a weak smile.
He flicked the lighter once.
Nothing.
Twice.
A spark.
Third time, a small flame caught, then spread slowly through the twigs. Ethan fed it carefully, shielding it from wind with his body.
When the fire finally rose steady and bright, Lena let out a breath she'd been holding for hours.
"Okay," she whispered. "Okay… this is good."
"It's not good," Ethan said. "It's enough."
He found a flat strip of metal torn from luggage hardware and used a rock to hammer one end sharp. Crude, ugly, but functional—a short cutting blade.
Lena stared. "You made a knife out of that?"
"Better than fingers," he said.
They split one energy bar and took tiny bites. No one said the obvious part out loud: rationing had already begun.
As darkness spread across the water, sounds changed.
Waves got louder.
Bird calls stopped.
Something moved in the brush beyond the tree line—small, then gone.
Lena shifted closer to the fire. "Do you think rescue is coming tomorrow?"
Ethan looked at the black horizon.
"No."
She swallowed. "Then when?"
"I don't know."
Silence.
Then he handed her the metal bottle. "One sip. Save the rest."
She drank and passed it back without arguing.
Progress.
Ethan added thicker wood to the flames and watched sparks rise into the dark.
"Tomorrow we look for a better water source," he said. "And we build tools. Food too, if we can."
Lena nodded. "I'll help."
He glanced at her. "If we do this, we do it clean. No panic, no wasting, no pretending."
"Deal."
The fire crackled between them, bright and fragile.
On the other side of the beach, distant voices from Mercer's group faded into wind and darkness.
Two camps.
Two plans.
One island.
Ethan tightened his grip on the improvised blade and stared into the night.
Day one wasn't over yet.
But they were still alive.