In the moonlight, I can see the small bite mark there dripping blood. It’s smaller than I expect and there’s no chunk torn away, as if the shark that bit him was more terrified of him than willing to risk trying to get more meat. Thank fuck it wasn’t one of the bigger ones, but this wound is still trouble. He might walk with a slight limp, and the bacteria in the ocean isn’t great for it, but we can always get him help later for it. The shark missed the main artery.

“Hand over the wound,” Achilles orders. “We have to stop the blood flow as much as possible. Hand over it, put pressure, and then we’ll wrap it. We can push you the rest of the way if needed. It’s gonna be fine. Just a nibble.”

“It didn’t feel like a fucking nibble,” Row spits, doing as Achilles says. His hand wraps rightly around the bite, trying to slow the blood.

Achilles digs out the wrap he’d carried in the only small waterproof pouch he’d had and sets it on the raft. There will be no time for antiseptics, only some powder Achilles said will help stop small amounts of blood, but even I know it won’t be enough for this. We didn’t have room for alcohol or anything other than a few bandages. But he can’t put it on there until the blood slows down.

At first, I’m watching Row and Achilles carefully, the others doing the same. We’re all on edge, worried about the fins still moving around us, bumping against the rafts as the scent of Row’s blood drives them feral. Hopefully, the current will start to carry it away but I don’t really know how that all works. Fuck, I don’t remember a Bear Grylls show about sharks! I’m gonna have to send him an email when I get off this island and give him shit for it. It’s because I’m so focused on my internal conversation that I’m able to look away from Row and realize there’s another noise filtering through the air, faint, but it's there.

“Does anyone else hear that?” I ask.

Silence falls over us as we listen. The soft buzzing is annoying, almost too hard to hear at first, before it grows louder, and a light circles the island in front of us.

“Fuck,” I rasp, looking between them as we all collectively realize what it is and the patrol boat is heading our way. “How’s that leg wound?”

“Still bleeding,” Achilles grunts. “The wrap isn’t going to do shit if we put it on.”

“Wrap it,” Creed commands anyway. “Now.”