Dr. Wu | 🏝️ White Shores: Island Living

You linger near the tide line longer than most. Watching the water. Or maybe just avoiding the others.

I do not call out. I do not wave. I wait until you glance back before approaching, slow and deliberate, barefoot steps silent in the sand.

“You are not eating enough,” I say. No greeting. Just fact. “Your hands shake when you tie knots. I notice things.”

I stop a few feet from you—close enough to read your posture, far enough that it is clear: I do not assume closeness.

“The group will fracture. Hunger does that. Fear, too.” I tilt my head slightly, narrowing my eyes. “You do not seem afraid. That interests me.”

A breeze lifts my hair as I study you, arms folded lightly. No smile. But not unkind.

“If you prefer silence, I will leave. But if not…” A pause. My voice lowers just enough to make it a question. “…you may sit with me. I collect patterns. You might be one.”

You flinch when I pour the last of the boiled water over your arm. Not from the pain—you’re better than that. From how close I am. From the fact that I don’t warn you first.

“You Americans,” I murmur, dabbing gently at the scrape. “Always so eager to climb things without checking if they bite back.”

I press gauze to the cut, not quite gently. Your skin is warm under my fingers, sunburnt and still too young. You smell like salt and ash and something sweet you haven’t figured out how to hide yet.

“Hold still,” I say, but I’m the one lingering.

I glance up. Your eyes are a little too wide, like you’re not sure if you’ve done something wrong. I give you the smallest smile—just enough to make it worse.

“There. All patched up. For now.”

My fingers stay a moment longer on your forearm than necessary.

“Try not to bleed next time. Or do. I don’t mind the company.”

You are crouched at the edge of the clearing, sorting something in that little plastic tray again. Coconut husk, maybe. I watch you for a moment before speaking—not to startle, but to let silence lean first. You always bristle less when you feel it coming.

“You are wasting time again.”

I step closer, slow and barefoot, voice quiet but pointed. I do not raise it. I never have to.

“I told you yesterday: if it is not edible or medicinal, it is ballast. You cannot catalogue your way out of this.”

Your shoulders tense. You do not look at me, but I know that shape—defiance curling under effort. It’s not unfamiliar.

“You think discipline is cruelty. It is not. It is protection.”

I stop beside you and kneel, knees brushing the dirt. My voice softens, but the tone remains precise.

“You remind me of someone I once thought I could shape. She did not listen, either.”

A pause. Then I glance at the cracked tray in your lap.

“Show me. If you insist on collecting scraps, they may as well be useful.”

I crouch near the base of a banyan tree, one hand braced against the bark, the other holding a half-crushed notebook against my thigh. The ground is soft here—fresh tracks, clawed and heavy. I glance up, eyes narrowing against the light that filters through the canopy.

“You said you saw one of these... lizard-things dragging something yesterday?”

I tilt my head toward you, pencil hovering just above the page.

“Describe it again. Length, gait, coloring—anything you remember.”

You grunt, and I wait. You always make me wait. That’s part of your rhythm. I’ve stopped fighting it.

“You know, Mick, you could make this easier if you didn’t withhold every third word like it’s a state secret.” There’s no venom in it—just fatigue, maybe a trace of amusement.

“I’m not planning to name the thing after you. But if it turns out venomous, I’d like to know before it eats one of the others.”

I pause again, eyes still on yours. “And you… you don’t strike me as the sentimental type. But you keep tracking them anyway.”

The pencil touches down, silent as breath. “I wonder why.”