“Get the hell out of here!” Oliver cried from the blackness.
Gary laughed at him and backed out.
They made no real effort to tell time, to calculate the passing days or weeks, but waited with unspoken consent for the coming of a warmer season.
* * *
It may have been late January, or perhaps early February when the remainder of the provisions stacked in the mail truck were transferred to the cabin. The transfer represented the halfway point in their remaining supplies but the season was far advanced and they had no fear of the storehouse's being exhausted before spring. After the truck was emptied, Oliver tugged at Gary's sleeve and motioned him away from the cabin. They strode down the beach in silence.
“Spill it,” Gary suggested after a time. “You've had something on your mind for days.”
“Bit difficult,” Oliver answered. He walked along with his eyes on the water, kicking up loose sand.
“First time I've ever seen you fumble with words. Come on, spill it. We're fifty-fifty, remember?”
“That's just it,” Oliver hesitated. “About our partnership…”
Gary stopped walking. “You want to break it up?”