The Island of Two

The gulls screamed first, then the sea answered back, dragging the wreckage of our ship like bones across the shore.

When I opened my eyes, the sun was too bright and my throat was too dry to remember I was still alive.

Then I saw him—Max—already clutching the box of rations as if it were a lifeline meant only for him.

Salt crusted my lips. My tongue felt like leather. The beach stretched endlessly in both directions, white sand broken only by planks and rope and the occasional flash of metal from what had been our vessel. I pushed myself up on trembling arms, ribs protesting where the waves had slammed me against something hard during the wreck.

Max sat twenty feet away, his thick carpenter’s hands working at the latches of a waterproof supply box. Even from here, I could see the calculation in his movements. He was counting. Measuring. His shirt hung in tatters, revealing shoulders built from years of hauling lumber, but now those muscles trembled with exhaustion.

“Max.” My voice came out as a croak.

He looked up sharply, like a dog caught with stolen meat. For a moment, something flickered across his face. Relief? Disappointment? Then his expression settled into careful neutrality.

“Arthur. Good. You made it.”

I crawled toward him, joints on fire. When I reached the box: four packets of crackers, dried fruit, two bottles of water. Maybe three days if we were careful.

“We divide it,” I said immediately. “Equal shares.”

Max’s grip on the box tightened. His knuckles went white. “Sure. Equal.”

But he didn’t let go.

I knew Max from the ship, though we’d barely spoken. Once, drunk on cheap rum, he’d mentioned a son in Portland. Said he had to get back before someone hurt what he loved. My own reasons burned in my chest—my brother’s face, thin and trusting when I’d promised to save everything we’d built. This voyage was supposed to fix it all.

“The current,” Max said, scanning the shoreline. “It brought us here. Might bring more supplies.”

I nodded, though we both knew the odds. The ship had gone down fast in the storm. Most of the crew never made it to the lifeboats. We’d been lucky. Or unlucky, depending on how the next days played out.

We built a rough shelter from driftwood and torn canvas. Max worked with practiced efficiency despite exhaustion. I gathered rope, wood, bent metal.

Neither of us mentioned rescue.

As the sun began to sink, we sat in the shade of our makeshift lean-to and divided the first meal. Two crackers each. A handful of dried apricots. I made myself chew slowly, letting each bite dissolve on my tongue. Max ate faster, mechanically, his eyes already moving to the remaining supplies.

“Tomorrow we should explore,” he said. “See how big this place is. Look for fresh water.”

I agreed, though something in his tone made me uneasy. He spoke like a man making plans alone.

That night, I lay on the sand and listened to the waves. My stomach cramped with hunger despite the meal. Above, stars crowded the sky in a way they never did back home. I thought of my brother, wondered if he was looking at these same stars, wondering why I hadn’t called from port yet.

Beside me, Max shifted restlessly. Once, I opened my eyes to find him staring at the supply box, which sat between us like a promise or a threat.

Sleep, when it finally came, brought dreams of drowning.

***

The second day brought clarity and with it, fear.

Three hours walking our prison’s perimeter. The island was small—two miles long, maybe less than a mile wide. No fresh water, just tide pools and the endless, undrinkable sea.

Max found a dead crab and ate it raw. Shell cracking between his teeth made my stomach turn and growl.

“We need to be smarter about the food,” I said when we returned to camp.

“I’m being plenty smart.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “That crab wasn’t from our supplies.”

“But the water you’re drinking is.”

He’d finished his bottle. Mine was three-quarters full, plastic warm from sun. I’d been taking tiny sips.

“I need strength to build,” Max said. “To look for materials. You want to just sit here and wait?”

“I want to survive until someone finds us.”

“No one’s looking, Arthur.” His voice was flat, matter-of-fact. “The company won’t report us missing for another week at least. We were off course when we went down. You know that.”

I did know. But hearing it said aloud made it real in a way I wasn’t ready for.

I rationed our supplies while Max built a signal fire pit. Fourteen crackers left. Seven each. When I looked up, he was watching me.

“Seems like less than yesterday,” he said.

“It’s exactly what we started with minus what we ate.”

“If you say so.”

The accusation hung between us, unspoken but clear. I wanted to argue, to demand he count them himself, but I held my tongue. We needed to work together. Fighting would only make things worse.

But that night, I noticed Max had moved the supply box closer to his side of the shelter.

The third day, hunger became a living thing. A hollow ache that spread through my limbs, making them heavy and light at once. My vision swam. Every movement required deliberate thought.

Max was suffering too—grayish skin beneath the sunburn, pausing between tasks. But he still watched me. Always watching.

“The crackers,” he said that evening. “Let me see them.”

I showed him the remaining packets. He counted twice, three times, fingers trembling.

“There were seven yesterday. Now there’s six.”

“We each ate one. That’s two. Seven minus two is five, Max. There’s five here, plus the one we’re splitting tonight.”

He stared at me, and I saw something shift in his eyes. Trust dying. Replaced by something sharper, more primitive.

“You’re taking extra,” he said. “When I’m not looking.”

“I’m not. Count them yourself if you want. Handle the rationing.”

“Maybe I will.”

He snatched the box, cradling it against his chest like a child. Fine, I thought. Let him feel the weight of keeping us both alive.

That night, I dreamed of my brother’s boat—diesel and fish scales, rolling deck. In the dream, I brought him money, but when I opened my hands, only sand.

I woke to find Max sitting up, the supply box open in his lap. He was just staring at the contents, not eating, just looking. When he noticed me watching, he closed it quickly.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he muttered.

Neither of us slept much after that.

The fourth day, Max accused me of stealing water.

He’d found rainwater in the rocks that morning. Half a cup, saved for emergency. When we returned from gathering driftwood, it was gone.

“You drank it,” he said. Not a question.

“I didn’t. Maybe it evaporated—”

“Stop lying!” He grabbed my shirt. “I can see it on your lips.”

I shoved him away. He stumbled, fell into the sand. For a moment, we both stood there, breathing hard, waiting to see if this would escalate. Then Max laughed, a bitter sound.

“We’re going to die here,” he said. “You know that, right? Two men fighting over crumbs while the sea watches.”

“We’re not dead yet.”

“Might as well be.” He looked at his hands, as if surprised by what they’d just done. “I got a boy back home. Ten years old. Haven’t seen him in six months. His mother says I’m no good for him. But her new man…” His voice trailed off. “Maybe she’s right.”

I thought of my brother, waiting for news. “We’ll make it.”

Max stood, brushing sand from his pants. “One of us might.”

***

By the fifth day, we had stopped pretending to be civilized men.

Hunger scraped us to our essential parts. Each morning, we checked supplies, suspicious the other had stolen during the night. Our conversations became transactions: “Your turn for firewood.” “There’s kelp on the north shore.” We moved around each other like wary animals sharing a den.

I watched Max constantly now. The way his hands twitched when he slept. The way he licked his lips when looking at our dwindling food. Once, I caught him sucking on a piece of driftwood, trying to extract some imagined nutrition from the salt-soaked grain.

My body was failing. Ribs sharp beneath skin. Joints aching. But worse was what hunger did to my mind. I found myself calculating scenarios. If Max died first, how long would his share last me? The thought disgusted me, but it wouldn’t leave.

That afternoon, I found Max kneeling in the surf, trying to catch fish with bare hands. Frantic, desperate. Fish slipped through his fingers like silver thoughts.

“My son used to ask me to take him fishing,” he said. “Never had time.”

I sat beside him in the shallow water, let the waves lap at our legs. “Tell me about him.”

“Smart kid. Smarter than me. Likes to read about dinosaurs. I promised him…” Max’s voice broke. “I promised him I’d come back different. Better.”

“You will.”

He turned to look at me then, really look at me, and for a moment the suspicion lifted. “What about you? What’s waiting?”

“My brother. He thinks I’m saving us. Coming back with money to fix everything I let fall apart.”

“Are you?”

I thought about the promise I’d made, the confidence in my voice when I’d told him not to worry. “I was trying to.”

Max nodded slowly. “We’re both liars then. Making promises we can’t keep.”

That night, we shared the last of the dried fruit. Three pieces each. Max chewed his slowly, eyes closed, savoring. I saved one piece, tucking it in my pocket when he wasn’t looking. Not to steal, just to have. To know something was there.

The sixth day brought madness.

I woke to find Max crouched over the supply box, counting crackers in a whisper. “Four… no, three… but there were four…” His fingers moved over them again and again, like he could multiply them through repetition.

“Max.”

He spun around, clutching the box. “You took one. While I was sleeping.”

“I didn’t.”

“Liar!” He stood, swaying. His eyes were wild, unfocused. “I can smell it on your breath. Cracker crumbs in your beard.”

I touched my face. There was nothing there but days of stubble and salt. “Max, you’re not thinking straight. The hunger—”

“Don’t tell me about hunger!” He backed away, box like a shield. “I know what you’re doing. Waiting for me to get weak.”

“I have a son!” Shouting now, spit flying. “I have to get back to him. I HAVE to.”

“And I have a brother. We both have reasons—”

“My boy needs me. His mother’s new boyfriend hits him. Every night I’m here, my boy’s getting hurt, and I’m not there.”

The confession hung between us. Truth or hunger-born nightmare—I couldn’t tell.

“Give me the box, Max.”

“I’m taking it. I’m swimming to the wreck. There might be more supplies.”

“You’ll drown.”

“Maybe. Or maybe I’ll find enough to last until rescue.” He was already backing toward the water. “Don’t follow me.”

He waded into the surf, box held high. Within minutes, he was struggling, swimming one-handed. I stood torn between saving him or saving the food.

That’s what it came down to. Not Max’s life, but the crackers.

I dove in.

Cold water, stronger current. We went under together, grabbing for the box, for each other. Two starving men fighting over crackers while the ocean tried to claim us both.

Somehow, we made it back to shore. Barely. We collapsed on the sand, coughing up seawater. The box lay between us, burst open. Crackers scattered across the beach, some already dissolving in the foam. We scrambled for them, pushing each other, scraping up sandy fragments and shoving them in our mouths.

When it was over, we had almost nothing left. Maybe four crackers, broken and damp. No water except what we could wring from our clothes.

We sat apart that night, neither speaking. The space between us felt like an ocean of its own. I could hear Max crying, soft sounds he tried to muffle. I wanted to comfort him, to say we’d figure it out, but the words wouldn’t come. My throat closed around them.

“You’d watch me starve if it bought you another hour,” Max said.

I told the truth. “And you’d do the same.”

He didn’t argue.

On the eighth morning, I woke alone.

The space where Max had slept was empty, just a depression in the sand shaped like a man. Panic shot through me. Had he taken the remaining food? Left me to die? I scrambled to check our supplies, but the pathetic remnants were still there. Three broken crackers. Nothing more.

His footprints led toward the shore.

I followed them, my legs unsteady, vision blurring at the edges. The sun was barely up, painting the ocean the color of old blood. The tracks wove back and forth, the gait of a drunk man or a dying one.

I found Max collapsed at the waterline, waves lapping at his legs. His skin had gone gray, lips nearly blue. But he was breathing. In his right hand, clenched tight, was a packet of crackers I’d never seen before. Still sealed. Water dripped from the plastic.

Rage flooded through me. He’d been hiding food. All this time, while we counted crumbs, while we fought and accused and descended into madness, he’d had this stashed away.

I dropped to my knees, pried at his fingers. They released without resistance. The packet was soaked through, crackers turned to mush, but it was food. My hands shook.

“Take it.”

Max’s voice was barely a whisper. His eyes fluttered open, focused on me with effort.

“You bastard,” I said. “You hid this.”

“Days ago. Before we started rationing. Thought I was being smart.” He coughed, specks of blood on his lips. “Take it. You’ll make it back.”

“Max—”

“You’ve got someone waiting.” His hand found my wrist, grip weak as a child’s. “Your brother. You promised him.”

The packet crinkled in my hands. Inside, maybe two crackers’ worth of paste. Enough for another day, maybe two if I was careful. Max’s breathing was getting shallower. He’d given up. His body was shutting down, and he was trying to hand me his last secret, his last chance.

“Eat it,” he said. “Please.”

I looked at this man I’d grown to hate over a handful of crackers. This stranger I’d fought with, suspected, nearly drowned with. His face was hollow, cheekbones sharp as broken shells. But his eyes—his eyes were clear for the first time in days.

“Your son,” I said.

“Tell him…” Max swallowed, wincing. “Tell him his father tried to come home better.”

I wanted to say he would tell his son himself. That rescue would come. That we’d both make it. But we were past lying now. Hunger had stripped that away along with everything else.

I divided the mush into two portions, pressed some into Max’s mouth.

“Together,” I said. “Or not at all.”

He tried to refuse, but I persisted. We ate in silence, paste salty with seawater and gritty with sand. When it was gone, we sat together watching the horizon.

“I would have let you die,” Max said quietly. “If you’d found me like this, with food. I would have kept it.”

“I know.”

“But you didn’t.”

I thought about it. Why hadn’t I? Maybe because in that moment, being human mattered more than being alive. Or maybe I was just too tired to carry his ghost along with my own hunger.

“We’re going to die here,” Max said. It wasn’t a question anymore.

“Probably.”

“My son—”

“I’ll tell him. If I make it, I’ll find him. Tell him you tried.”

Max nodded, closing his eyes. I stayed with him as the sun climbed, his breathing rougher, longer pauses. Near noon, he squeezed my hand once, then went still.

I sat with his body until evening, too weak to move him, too weak to do anything but watch the sea and wait for my own ending.

The ship appeared at dawn the next day.

I saw it through delirium, a dark shape I assumed was hallucination. But it grew larger, became real. By the time the rescue boat reached shore, I was unconscious, still sitting beside Max, my hand on his shoulder.

They found me holding a packet of crackers. Still sealed. They thought I’d shown remarkable discipline. They didn’t understand when I started crying, why I insisted we bring Max’s body home.

The doctors said I was lucky. Another day and I would have followed Max. They talked about starvation but not the other hunger—the one that had eaten us from inside.

I kept my promise. Found Max’s son in Portland, told him his father had been brave. Had sacrificed for another man. It was true enough.

My brother met me at the dock. He’d aged, worry cutting lines around his eyes. I had no money, no salvation for our debts. Just stories of the sea and a hunger that would never fully leave.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I failed.”

He pulled me into an embrace, and I could feel him trembling. “You came back. That’s all that matters.”

Late at night, I’d think about that island. About Max. About the crackers he’d hidden then surrendered. Had there been others?

I’d never know. That was the real hunger—not for food, but for truth, for the man the sea had taken and the piece of myself it had taken with him.

The hunger stayed inside me, but it wasn’t for food anymore—it was for the man the sea had taken.