Day 7
Morning rolled in like mist over a cold cup of coffee—quiet, gray, and too early for comfort. But inside Gabriel's cabin, the vibe was anything but restful.
Marga was the first up. Before the salt in the wind could even settle, she joined Brei in the kitchen, where the two women were already elbow-deep in onions, dried fish, and a debate about whether cassava should ever be fried in silence.
"I'm just saying," Marga said, chopping fiercely, "if I die from a zombie bite, bury me with garlic. Let them gag when they chew."
Brei snorted. "Child, if you die from anything, I'm haunting you. I told you not to eat that suspicious canned squid last night."
After breakfast, they both stepped out to the patch behind the cabin where stubborn greens fought for life. Water spinach, Malabar spinach, kale, and native vines curled up from the dirt like they'd seen worse days and kept going anyway.
"Spacing, Marga," Brei said, adjusting her wide-brimmed hat. "Don't choke them like bad exes."
"I would never choke my ex," Marga replied. "I'd let the kale do it for me."
---
Not far off, the distinct thunk-thunk of wood echoed. Rico was swinging an axe with the energy of someone trying to impress a crowd that wasn't watching. Rafe stood nearby, arms crossed, nodding like a dad in a hardware store.
"Good wrist work," Rafe called. "You could build a cabin with that arm."
"I used to suck at this," Rico said between swings. "Now I feel like Thor, but smell like beef jerky."
"Apocalypse glow-up. Happens to the best of us," Rafe grinned.
---
Down the shoreline, Gabriel and Tenorio stood waist-deep in chilly water, tossing nets with practiced motions and sarcastic commentary.
"You sure you're not scaring the fish with that face?" Tenorio teased.
Gabriel snorted. "If I wanted to scare them, I'd send Anna."
"Hey, that woman made me cry just by looking at me sideways," Tenorio said. "I believe it."
Still, teamwork won out. Two fat fish thrashed in their net minutes later, and Tenorio raised his arms in triumph. "Behold! Sushi deluxe, apocalypse edition."
---
Back at the house, Nestor—grumpy, limping, determined—was digging a pit while muttering like an old warlock.
"Irrigation and storage. Dual-purpose genius," he muttered. "Taught by a man who swore by chicken manure and bare feet. Legend."
He wiped sweat from his brow and ignored the ache in his bad leg.
---
From the porch, Anna observed them all like a strict principal during recess. They'd only been here a day. Yet somehow, they were everywhere. Working. Laughing. Sweating. Not dying. Suspicious.
But it was Xenia who drew Anna's gaze most.
The girl sat on a large flat rock near the shed, a dusty old manual on her lap. Legs crossed. Face serious. Mouth moving as she read aloud like she was rehearsing for an apocalypse TED Talk.
Anna squinted. "What's she doing, reading spells?"
Brei glanced up. "Said something about oil."
"Oils?"
"Lanterns. She's trying to make 'em."
Anna raised an eyebrow. "With a book? Book won't boil rice."
"Let her try," Brei shrugged. "She hasn't blown up anything yet."
Anna pursed her lips, then waved Marga over. "Let's see if this girl's actually got a brain or just the attitude."
They raided the shed and kitchen: old jars, bent nails, busted wire, broken ladles, torn cloth, and a questionable can of fish oil. They dropped everything at Xenia's feet like a grumpy version of Santa Claus.
Anna folded her arms. "Make something useful. Go."
Xenia blinked up at her, then grinned. "Oh good. I was hoping for junk."
She stood, cracked open the book flat on the step, and got to work. "So according to this old survival manual—probably written by someone's weird grandpa—you can make a lamp out of anything that doesn't leak and won't explode. Preferably."
She pulled out a tin can, filled it with fish oil, twisted a cloth into a thick wick, and slipped it through a hole poked into a scrap of metal. She topped it with a glass jar she cleaned with her sleeve.
"Glass helps control the flicker," she explained. "Fish oil burns slow. This will last all night if no one messes with it."
Anna raised an eyebrow. "You sure you didn't invent this on an app?"
Xenia laughed. "No phones here, remember? I'm an education major, ma'am. Not a wizard. I just read. A lot."
---
By noon, four handmade oil lamps sat drying in the sun on the porch. They weren't pretty. They smelled like regret and sardines. But they worked. When lit, the flames burned slow and steady—like little sentinels.
Rafe and Rico returned hauling wood. Gabriel and Tenorio lugged their fish to the porch. All of them froze when they saw the scene.
The garden had been watered.
The firewood stacked.
A half-built food storage pit stood neatly dug.
And on the porch?
Lamps. Flickering. Real. Hopeful.
Gabriel whistled low. "Holy hell. You all on steroids?"
"Nope," Tenorio said. "Just desperate."
Anna passed Xenia without a word, but came back with a folded rag. She dropped it on the table beside the lamps.
"For wiping soot," she muttered. "They get dirty fast."
Xenia didn't look up. Just smiled faintly. "Thanks."
She didn't need applause. Just a little respect—and maybe some less-smelly oil next time.