Morning came hot and merciless.
Ethan woke before sunrise, checked the coals, and fed the fire before it died. Keeping a flame alive was cheaper than rebuilding one from nothing.
Lena sat up slowly, hair tangled, eyes tired but alert.
"Any rescue ships?" she asked.
Ethan scanned the horizon. "Nothing."
She nodded once. No complaint this time.
Good.
They spent the first hour opening every piece of luggage they had dragged over the night before. Ethan sorted items into four piles in the sand:
Essential now — water containers, lighter, dry cloth, shoes, anything sharp
Useful later — rope fragments, plastic sheets, metal parts
Trade or backup — extra clothing, cosmetics, random accessories
Dead weight — useless luxury trash
Lena watched him work, then started copying the system without being asked.
By mid-morning they had two workable bottles, one metal cup, a handful of sealed snacks, spare fabric, and enough odd hardware to improvise tools.
Not much.
But organized.
Ethan looked up at the palms behind camp. "We need more fluids before heat peaks."
He tested one tree, then climbed—slow and controlled. At the crown, he twisted free three green coconuts and dropped them into the sand one by one.
Lena jumped back on the first impact. "Warn me next time!"
Ethan smirked. "Noted."
He used the metal blade and a rock to crack openings. The coconut water was warm but clean enough, and both of them drank like their bodies had been waiting all night.
"Best thing I've ever tasted," Lena muttered.
"Today maybe," Ethan said.
Next, he laid out a simple rain-catch setup: stretched plastic over angled driftwood, weighted corners with stones, and placed containers beneath low points to collect runoff.
"If it rains, we save everything," he said.
Lena pointed at the ocean. "And food?"
Ethan nodded.
He spent an hour shaping a crude spear from a straight branch, hardening the tip with fire, then reinforcing it with metal scrap and cloth strips. Ugly but sharp enough for shallow-water strikes.
By noon he entered the surf, knees bent against wave push, watching for movement near rocks.
First attempt—miss.
Second—miss.
Third—hit.
A silver fish thrashed on the spear tip while Lena cheered from shore like he'd won a championship.
"Don't celebrate yet," Ethan called. "One fish is one meal, not a strategy."
Still, it was protein. Real protein.
When he returned, he found Lena dragging two long wooden boards toward camp, sweating and breathing hard.
He blinked. "You moved those alone?"
She dropped one end with a thud. "You said we build. So we build."
For the first time, Ethan saw more than panic in her.
Adaptation.
They spent the afternoon reinforcing their fire zone with stones and arranging boards as a windbreak. By sunset, their camp looked less like an accident and more like a plan.
Minimal. Fragile. But intentional.
As shadows stretched, Ethan cleaned the fish while Lena prepared kindling.
"Tomorrow," he said, "we scout deeper inland. If there are animals, there's probably freshwater nearby."
Lena nodded. "And if Mercer's group comes?"
Ethan didn't look up. "Then we keep our distance. For now."
He set the fish over flame and watched fat hiss into firelight.
No rescue.
No guarantees.
But day by day, they were turning chaos into structure.
And structure meant survival.