Andrew can barely walk on his right foot. The cut has not healed much in the last two days, and has started to smell. Each time Andrew took off his socks to change his seaweed bandages, he has to hold his nose to stop from puking. He’s quickly learned to eat after his wound dressings.

The good news is that the shark hasn’t come back and Andrew is pretty sure he isn’t running a fever. Sure, he feels hot all the time, but he attributes this to the poisonous sun hanging over him every hour of every day.

He is grateful for the ball of fire though, because it’s this intense sunlight that has inspired him to come up with a new way of preparing his food.

Drying it.

The process is so simple. Clean the fish out, slice it open, and hang it on a pole. Then let the wind and sun do the rest of the work. And in a day or two, Andrew has a piece of fish jerky ready to eat.

He doesn’t know why he didn’t think to do this sooner. He’d lost count how many raw fish he’s eaten. And he’s sure he never needs to know.

The sun is in its usual spot in the sky, but not exactly where it’s been before. Andrew can tell from the wind that he’s been drifting in a different direction. When he set out from the island - fled, really - he’d been going out north into the uncharted ocean. But now, he’s pretty sure he’s heading more westward.

Towards more uncharted waters.

Andrew turns to the stack of scrap in the corner of his raft. There’s been more brought to him, a piece or two every day until there’s more than he knows what to do with. He’s already strapped everything that can float onto the sinking side of his raft, saving it from completely sinking, but that still leaves him with a bunch of debris too specific to have any immediate use.

He counts three nails, a wooden handle from some kind of tool, a bit of rope, and a glass bottle. At first, he’s delighted to be given a container. But thinking about it, he realizes that a bottle is one of the least useful things out here. What will he hold in it? Seawater? All the clear drinkable water he makes he drinks straight away, and it hasn’t rained in the last two weeks. Still, he isn’t going to throw it away or anything. Out here, everything has its use, even a glass bottle without a lid. He just hasn’t figured it out yet. He puts it aside for now, but fearing it may roll away without some sort of weight holding it down, he fills it up with… well, seawater.

He catches no fish this day. Food has become scarce ever since he’s down to one fishing line.

Another good thing about drying his fish. It doesn’t spoil nearly as quickly, so he can keep nibbling on the same piece of jerky for days. It may not be filling, but at least he can give his body the illusion of being fed.

He thinks about making more lines. He has the ropes that he can unwind, but what to use for the hook? Andrew doesn’t want to sacrifice his three remaining shark teeth. They’re too useful as cutting and crafting tools. He has the three nails, but they’re all too straight and thick to hook into a fish’s lips.

Andrew will need to bend them. He decides to try one. But as he gets up his foot stabs him with agony. The pain is too much for him to ignore now, and it’s only been getting worse.

Andrew sits down and peels off all the coverings. The air immediately fills with a pungent, sour smell. It’s enough for his stomach to turn. Gingerly, he twists his foot towards him so he can see the bottom.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

He almost loses his breakfast, if he had any.

The cut has simultaneously flattened into and spread across the foot. Thick puss surrounds the grey puckered skin, and bits of broken flesh have turned black.

Andrew has seen enough of the Doctor’s failed experiments to spot the signs of an infection. He keeps putting off treatment because he thinks, hopes, that he will not have to go to any drastic measures. It’s just a cut, after all. Surely he doesn’t have to lose a foot over it.

But now, he isn’t so sure.

Andrew does his best to clean the wound. He doesn’t redress it. He doesn’t have time. He needs a fire, and a sharp blade.

Andrew almost laughs at that. Fire and metal. Here.

I may as well ask for a box of medicine and a bucket of ice, too.

Andrew gives himself a mental shake. He may not be able to create antibiotics or ice, but fire and a blade? He can at least try.

He starts with the fire. At least he already has some experience. He finds the block of wood he used for his first failed attempt. It’s still dry enough so he can use it right away. But after putting some thought into it, he decides to dig a hole where he’ll place the kindling. This way, the wind will not so easily blow the embers out.

Next, he needs another scoop. He does the same as last time, pulling out a piece of the raft and shaping it roughly into a length of bare wood. He tries making it more uniform in shape to help with holding onto it, but the tooth he’s been using has gone dull and it’s already taking incredible amounts of energy to carve with it.

Andrew settles on a rough block half the length of his forearm. It will have to do.

Then, fastening the drilling station to his raft with rope, he begins to rub the block against it.

This time, the sun is only halfway down the horizon when Andrew first sees glowing embers. He doesn’t let the excitement get to him. He’d already made that mistake and it cost him. He keeps up a steady rate, dragging the wood forward and back without breaking stride.

The embers grow brighter, dotting the dark ashes gathering inside the nest of kindling. Andrew’s heart begins to race. Sweat pours down his face. He leans back, letting them drop harmlessly onto the raft.

It happens so fast. One second, Andrew is panting and sweating and thinking about what body part he’s willing to sacrifice to the alchemical gods, then the next second the kindling is going up in smoke. Plumes of white surround the bundle of string, so thick Andrew cannot see the embers inside it anymore. He keeps rubbing the two pieces of wood but it doesn’t seem to do anything now. He’s missing something. But what? He needs to think. But if he stops he fears the smoke will stop and all his efforts will go to waste.

And then he remembers something Davis told him.

Fire needs air the same way earth is quenched by water.

Andrew drops the wooden scoop and lifts up the block. He holds the smoking kindling to his mouth and blows.

Everything relies on something to exist. As do you and me.

The smoke grows denser. It clouds Andrew’s vision. He keeps blowing. He can see something inside glowing.

And then, fire.

Tongues of red licks out from within the kindling, writhing outwards from the blackening strings like a creature hungry to move. Andrew sets the block down and is almost frozen in disbelief at what he’s seeing.

Fire. Here. In the middle of the sea.

But not for long. Already the kindling is consumed. Andrew hurries to add more. He feeds the embers with sticks and more string in, then bigger blocks of wood as the flames grow until finally, Andrew has a steady fire.

He sits back, and stares in silence at the living, breathing, burning thing in front of him. It looks impossible. It should have been, on all accounts. Andrew almost convinces himself it’s just a mirage. Even the way it moves is too animated, too alive for a world of constant ebbing and flowing. But the sounds and the smells of burning wood, it’s all too real. And when Andrew brings his hands towards it, he feels a heat too comforting to be imagined.

Emotions bubble out of him. Laughter, sorrow, all tumble from his lips in an unstoppable flood.

He’s done it. He’s really done it. Fire. He’s made fire!

Tears stream from Andrew’s eyes. He curls down by the fire and cries. Huge sobs rack his body. He’s never cried so hard before in his life. And as the sun sets above him, he knows the real work will begin keeping the fire going throughout the cold of night.

But right now, he just wants to be in the moment a little while longer.