Water-weighted sleeves hang dripping from my wrists.

Heavy streams pour from my folded ankle cuffs. The denim has rubbed my inner thighs raw.

I have lost my shoes.

A fluid-logged cough racks my lungs,
lambasting my salt-sour tongue with recycled ocean.

My neck aches and my eyes scream.
Pressure sits behind my lids, begging for dry land. They may get more than they bargained for.

I glance around.

Thank God.
We all made it.
They're already here.

A pathetic moan escapes my lips as my limbs give out, dropping me into a pit of scratchy earth.

Paradoxically wet and dry, the sand of the surf has already made a home beneath my chipped nails.

I peek up and about.

Not another person in sight besides us.

The sun begins its job of dehydration as I squint at the nearby tree they're gathered around.

An odd-shaped palm drifts in the breeze.

Soon my torn clothes will join my dry papillae.

A look of denial over my torn shoulder blade seam.

Did this happen?

It can't be true.

Things like this don't occur in real life.

There is regret.

There is fear and sorrow, panic and... what the hell?

My head drops onto my arms with a laugh. I look up and crawl on all fours to lean against the tree trunk beside them.

We are on a beautiful island.

It's just our family; my loved ones.

No modern distractions.
No worries beyond sustenance.

Really?

No cameras? No social media?

Well, I'll be.

Good thing we love seafood.