Muriel planted her hands on her hips and watched Alain navigate the narrow strait in his little, but sturdy, motor boat. As he puttered away and around the bend, she looked around the calanque, up and around the high walls of limestone, scanning the trees for signs of hostile life. She released her left hand from its grasp of her hip and shook her left wrist to swing her watch face around so she could count the seconds passed as the long arm ticked briskly around the watch face. Alain would be back in an hour, maybe two, with supplies for the rest of the weekend. Muriel had plenty of time to organize the camp, assemble their tent, and stash the cargo Alain hadn’t known was on his first run out to the island.  Carefully she picked her way back up the rocks to their campsite and marveled at the first tranche of her good fortune.

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