Another problem was getting to the island.

  In dry weather he could swim across the inlet, but when the rains came the water rose and the current turned violent. Trying to cross then would be deadly.

  Dan understood that if he wanted any connection with the mainland, he needed a way across. That meant building a raft.

  He went into the forest and spent a long time choosing the trees. They had to be light, but not rotten. He started by cutting several dry trunks. The stone axe did not cut well, so most of the work was done by pounding. Branches came off slowly. By evening he was still stripping bark.

  To keep the raft from falling apart he tied the logs together with strong vines and ropes twisted from plant fibers. He had learned to make those earlier for bows and traps. He drove wooden wedges between the logs and added spacers to tighten the frame. The raft was simple. Just a platform that could hold a couple of people and some cargo. But it floated.

  He found a long straight pole in a tree that had been torn out by its roots. He used it as a paddle and to push against the riverbed. For safety he tied a spare rope to the raft and threw it across the river so he could pull the raft back if needed.

  The first launch made him uneasy. The raft rocked under his feet. Water hissed and foam broke against the logs. Still, it held. When he stepped onto the far bank, knee deep in warm water, a short laugh slipped out of him before he could stop it.

  Now there was a connection between the shores. Not a bridge, but something close.

  The raft stayed on the water. Small, but his.

  He stood watching it drift along the bank on its rope and knew that things were starting to work. Dan understood that his island was a fortress. Rough and simple, but hard to reach.

  Whenever he went to the mainland he moved carefully. The forest rustled, and every crack of a branch made his chest tighten. One day he walked farther than usual, moving upstream along the torn edge of the forest. There was something like an animal path there. Bushes pressed down, tracks in the dirt, old bones.

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  During one of these trips, when he was already heading back, he suddenly heard a thin squeak.

  He froze.

  The sound came again. High, broken, almost desperate. Somewhere under the roots of an overturned tree. He crouched and crawled closer. In the shadow among dry leaves and splinters he saw a small bundle of fur. Then another. Then a third.

  Puppies.

  Small, scruffy, frightened.

  They watched him with clear caution but did not run. The air smelled of milk, earth, and fear. Dan crouched and waited without moving closer. One of the pups, dark colored with absurdly large paws, crawled out and wagged its tail. The others backed away.

  "Hey," Dan said quietly. "Relax. I am not going to eat you. Not today anyway."

  He took the last pieces of dried meat from his pocket, placed them on the ground, and stepped back. The same puppy approached, sniffed, picked up a piece, and began chewing. A minute later the second one joined in. The third stayed in the shadows.

  "Smart little guys. Quick too. And your ears stand up. Maybe we will survive together."

  He slowly moved closer and picked up the two braver pups. They squirmed but did not bite. One licked his hand. Dan stepped back again. He did not try to grab the third one. That one was already retreating deeper under the roots.

  "If you do not want to come, that is fine. Maybe later. Or maybe you will find your own way."

  He wrapped the pups in his jacket and headed back toward the island. They breathed softly and pressed against each other. It was the first time since arriving here that he did not feel completely alone.

  On the island the first thing Dan did was choose a place under the roots of a tree where it was dry but not stuffy. He cleared the ground and laid down moss, dry leaves, and pieces of bark. Then he made something like a cradle from an old basket woven from twisted branches. He had planned to use it for something else. Now it became their temporary base.

  He brought a little warm water in a flat stone and placed pieces of boiled meat beside it. They were leftovers from the day before, carefully saved. The puppies ate greedily. One of them looked like it would grow big. Short muzzle, reddish fur. The other was darker and kept pushing its nose into every corner.

  "So you are Kom. And you can be Shadow. Good enough names. At least they are not worse than the names of Napoleon’s first companions," he muttered as he sat beside them and watched.

  The pups looked at him. Something flickered in Kom’s eyes, almost like a question. Shadow pushed its nose into his palm again.

  "So I guess that makes me the pack leader now. Congratulations, Dan. You just gave yourself a pack."

  He smiled.

  This was no longer just an island. Now he had an island and two loyal animals. That meant he was no longer alone.

  He began counting the days, carving marks into a tree. Every new day was a challenge. And he accepted each one.

  He sat by the fire and listened to the puppies breathing in their sleep. The fire crackled. The night was warm.

  And most important of all, he knew this was only the beginning.

  And the pups are more than comfort. They change the rules of survival.