We worked in parallel streams, each absorbed in our respective tasks but aware of the other's presence. The silence between us had evolved from the loaded quiet of our early interactions into something more restful.
I stole glances at Wes as he worked, noting how his forehead creased slightly when he concentrated and how his left hand absently rotated his coffee mug in precise quarter-turns. The lamplight caught the gray threading through his dark hair and highlighted the small scar that crossed his knuckles—probably acquired during some long-ago repair project.
The evening stretched ahead of us, full of small domestic possibilities—dinner to prepare, a fire to tend, and the quiet satisfaction of ending another day in a place that was beginning to feel like home.
***
The following morning arrived gray and restless, thick clouds pressing down on the island like a wool blanket. I woke to the sound of Wes moving through the cottage with his usual early-morning efficiency.
When I emerged from the guest room, he was studying a hand-drawn map spread across the kitchen table. Red X marks indicated problem areas—washouts from recent storms, fallen trees blocking passage, and sections where erosion had carved new channels through established routes.
"South trail took a beating," he said without looking up. "Storm surge pushed farther inland than usual. Probably lost twenty yards of boardwalk where it crosses the marsh."
"Sounds like a big job." I settled beside him to examine the map more closely. His pencil marks showed a trail system more complex than I'd realized, connecting the island's scattered points of interest with a network of paths.
"Day's work, maybe two if the damage is worse than I think." Wes folded the map with careful precision, creating sharp creases that would help it lie flat in his jacket pocket. "You interested in seeing how repair gets done?"
The invitation startled me. Since the lighthouse project yesterday, something had shifted in his willingness to include me in his work. Still, I hadn't expected him to seek my company for a major undertaking.
"Absolutely."
A half-smile appeared on his face. "Grab your boots. We'll be walking through some rough country."
An hour later, we were hiking single file along a path that meandered through the island's interior, past stands of birch and maple that had begun their autumn transformation. Thetrail showed evidence of heavy weather—branches scattered like pickup sticks and soft spots where standing water had turned solid ground into sucking mud.
"Here's where it gets interesting." Wes paused at what had once been a wooden bridge spanning a narrow creek. The structure now existed as scattered planks and twisted support posts, victims of storm surge that had carried debris from the harbor nearly a quarter-mile inland.
The creek had carved a new channel, broader and deeper than its original course. Water rushed over exposed granite, creating small waterfalls and pools that would have been picturesque under different circumstances.
I watched Wes survey the damage. "Could build another bridge, but the water will keep changing course. Smarter to work with what's happening instead of fighting it."
Fifty yards downstream, the creek widened into a natural ford where bedrock lay close to the surface. The water ran clearer there, shallow enough to cross safely with proper stone placement.
"This is where the trail should go." Wes set his pack down on the creek bank. "Work with the landscape instead of imposing solutions that don't fit."
He waded into the creek, testing the bottom for stable footing while identifying places where strategically placed stones could create a reliable crossing. "Hand me that flat stone." He pointed at a piece of granite roughly the size of a dinner plate.
I lifted the stone, surprised by its weight, and passed it to him carefully. He positioned it precisely, using a crowbar to align it with the creek bottom perfectly. Water flowed around the new obstacle, creating small eddies and finding new channels.
The next phase involved laying smaller stones to create a stable pathway from the existing trail to the new ford. "You'regetting the hang of it," Wes observed, watching me fit a particularly stubborn stone into place.
I wiped sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. "It's like a puzzle. Each piece has a place where it belongs."
We worked steadily through the morning, building approaches on both sides of the new ford and reinforcing the trail edges where erosion threatened to undermine our progress. I'd come looking for abstract theories, I realized, pausing in my stone placement, but Wes was actively preserving the past, adapting the present, and protecting the future with concrete actions.
It was active resilience, not an academic concept. It was daily practice. "I'm studying the wrong thing," I blurted out. "I should be documenting you."
Wes paused in his work. "Good luck getting tenure based on that."
I laughed, feeling lighter than I had in days. "I'm serious. Everything I've been trying to understand about community resilience and how places survive when circumstances change—you're living it. You're the case study I didn't know I was looking for."
Wes paused in his work and turned slightly. "And what are you going to do about that?"
"I—what do you mean?"
"You came to document the island and are halfway through your project. You've got your notes. So… if you're studyingme, what's the endgame?"
My cheeks flushed. "I didn't mean—"
