With our yachts destroyed, the fishers ignored us. What threat could we ever be to them with rafts lashed of wheat stalks? Those few of us who remained decided to make the island our home. We had land, we had seed, we had summer. Surely, we could survive and build a society if we had food. And we had two generations to find a way to return home before the brutal Southern winter came.

All went well for some years. But, then the height of summer came. The sun blazed down on us, and the rains never came. Our crops failed, and we began to starve. James was the first. Then John, Peter, and Andrew.

And so it went, until until only four of us remained—three men and one woman.

It may be summer, but it feels awfully cold at night.