The Drift
David sat on the sand, watching the waves roll in, endless and indifferent. The tide had carried in something strange today, a large wooden crate, bobbing in the shallows. It had been drifting closer all morning, turning slowly in the current, teasing them with the promise of something new. Something they could use.
David didn't move toward it. He sat and watched, hands resting loosely on his knees, listening to the wind scrape over the rocks behind him. It wasn't the first time something had washed up—bits of wreckage, plastic bottles, pieces of wood—but this crate was different. Larger. Sealed.
Behind him, the others were murmuring, low voices that carried on the breeze, though he couldn't make out the words. They were watching the crate too. Waiting.
"I'll get it," Mark said at last, breaking the silence. He was the tallest, the strongest, always the first to volunteer for things now. He stepped into the water, his feet splashing against the surf as he waded out to meet the crate.
David turned his head just enough to see Sarah watching from under the shade of a palm tree. Her arms were wrapped around her knees, her face shadowed. Her eyes, though—they were bright and focused, fixed on Mark's every move.
Mark reached the crate and grabbed hold of it, pulling it toward the shore. He grunted with effort, muscles straining under his tanned skin. When the crate scraped against the sand, Anna ran to help, her face flushed with excitement. They wrestled it up onto the beach, and the others gathered around, forming a loose circle.
David stood, slow and deliberate, his legs stiff. There was no rush. Whatever was in that crate wasn't going to change things, wasn't going to fix the world they'd been stranded in. Still, he found himself stepping closer, drawn by the promise of something unknown.
Mark kicked the crate, testing its strength. "We need something to break it open."
"I'll get a rock," Thomas muttered, already searching the ground for something heavy enough to crack the wood. His hands trembled slightly as he picked up a jagged stone, the sharp edge glinting in the pale sunlight.
David watched him, saw the way his fingers curled around the rock like claws. They hadn't been eating well. The food supplies had dwindled after the first month, and since then, it had been fruit, fish when they could catch it, and water collected from the rains. But the rains hadn't come in days.
The crate could have anything inside it. Food. Medicine. Tools. Or it could be nothing. A cruel joke sent by the same indifferent sea that had swallowed the ship, the sea that watched them starve and fight and grow weaker by the day.
Thomas smashed the rock against the crate with a loud crack, the wood splintering under the force. The others crowded in closer, their eyes wide, eager. David felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. They hadn't been this excited in days—this desperate.
Another swing, and the crate split open with a groan, the wood giving way to reveal its contents. They all leaned forward, their breath held, waiting.
Inside were cans. Dozens of them, stacked in neat rows, their labels faded and torn but still legible.
"Beans," Anna whispered, her voice thick with disbelief. "It's food. Real food."
For a moment, none of them moved. They just stared at the cans, as if they couldn't believe what they were seeing. Then Mark reached in, grabbed one, and held it up to the light, his eyes gleaming.
"We're saved," he said, grinning.
But David didn't smile. He saw the way the others were looking at the crate, at the cans, at each other. He felt the tension building, a quiet pressure beneath the surface of their relief. This wasn't salvation. It was something else.
"We have to share it," Sarah said, her voice steady but soft. She was still sitting beneath the palm tree, her gaze shifting between them. "We can ration it out. Make it last."
David nodded slowly, though he knew it wouldn't be that simple. Nothing was, not anymore. Hunger did things to people—made them different. Made them dangerous.
Mark was already opening one of the cans, his fingers fumbling with the lid. "We'll share, but let's eat now. Just a little. We need it."
David stepped back, letting the others take their fill. They'd been here too long. The island had changed them all, worn them down, stripped away the pieces that made them whole. The lines between them had blurred—friendship, trust, fear—all tangled together until they were nothing more than a fragile balance, waiting to tip.
As they ate, greedily shovelling the beans into their mouths, David looked out at the sea again. The waves lapped gently at the shore, soft and eternal, as if mocking their tiny struggles.
The crate wouldn't last forever. They all knew that. And when it was empty, when the last can had been cracked open and devoured, they'd be right back where they started. Hungry. Desperate. Alone.
No one said it, but the thought hung heavy in the air. David could see it in their eyes, feel it in the way they clung to the cans, hoarding each bite like it might be their last.
The island wasn't going to save them. The sea wasn't going to forgive them. They were trapped here, and the worst part wasn't the hunger or the thirst or the fear of never seeing home again.
The worst part was that they'd stopped caring.
The sun dipped lower on the horizon, casting long shadows across the sand. David turned away from the others, from the crate, from the endless sea, and walked toward the rocks at the edge of the island. He could hear them still, behind him, laughing and talking as if they'd found some kind of hope in those metal cans.
But he knew better.
There was no escape from the drift.
The island had them now. And it wasn't going to let go.