"We ought to rethink the guarding schedule."

Roger overheard this as he slowly opened his eyes. Even though he was still feeling the drowsiness, he did not need more sleep.

"And Roger's off from hunting for a few days," the chief continued, there was a familiar noise of the knife chipping wood off from the spear.

"But you've never done this before, you never let them take days off no matter the condition," the other voice was probably Maurice's.

"This is the first time someone's ever been like this," argued the chief, though his voice remained soft.

"No, remember last week? When Robert said he wasn't feeling fine you didn't let him rest. Seems to me that you're favoring Roger," Maurice was tapping his spear slightly on the ground. "Not that I have any problem with that, Roger is a good hunter, but is there more to it?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean.. is there something else behind you treating Roger differently from the rest of us, like besides him being a good hunter? Just a hunch, don't bother."

Roger put his palms against the ground, pushing to try to sit up. He coughed slightly, then noticed that there were some wet moss on his forehead that had already been heated up by his body temperature. A cracking sound came from his bones for lying in one position for a long time. The sound startled the other two, and they looked to his direction. Roger looked at them, too. His face was red, but it was unknown if the cause was his body temperature, or he was blushing. Maurice stood up and walked away, allowing the chief and his sick lieutenant time alone.

Jack stood up, too, but he walked over to Roger, then kneeled down to his lieutenant's eye level. He peeled the moss from Roger's forehead, for there were no better ways to get it off. Then, he pressed his forehead against Roger's to feel it.

"A little sleep did you well," said the chief before wetting the moss and putting it on Roger's head again. "You still need some more rest though, take a few days off if you want to."

Roger nodded slightly, for he felt his throat was still burning. He coughed some more.

"I'm sending Bill or Robert to go out and fetch our old clothes at the other side tomorrow, they'll be better at this than these moss." Jack flashed a quick smile before laying his hand on Roger's shoulder, and stared at the ground. Everything stood still for a moment, only the faint cry of the cicadas and the song the waves sung when they rushed to the shore were heard. Roger stared at Jack, his gaze locked into the chief's face. Suddenly realizing how weird it was, Jack let go of Roger's shoulder, stood up, and slightly pet the boy's black hair. "Well, get better soon. Others might get jealous, ya know, of the privileges and stuff. I mean, they're little kids anyway."

The chief left, and Roger alone with himself. The dark-haired boy picked up a small stick lying around in front of him, and began, again, his cycle of endless drawing and destroying. Only this time, he drew a curve that much resembled the letter S, followed by a straight, smaller line that looked like an I, then, the curve and the line were drawn over by random lines, and the cycle started again. Roger did not seem like he was bored with this continuous process, though he was thinking of something else while absentmindedly drawing the curves and lines. The waves kept hitting the shore from afar, slowly bringing whatever was on there away with them.

Roger felt his eyes getting hotter, but he did not know why. Maybe he had forgotten the reason, maybe he just did not know. Whatever it was, he had never felt that way before in his life. Or probably once, when he stood silently next to the fire of madness, hearing the waves hitting the shore, bringing something away with them. That something lied limply, blood soaking in the wet sand and blending in with the sea water, and on the figure's brown hair that had stuck heavily to its face was a small blue flower, and Roger's heart felt like it had stopped when he saw deep red smeared on that indigo-like color.

All he could remember was that, and an S.

And an I.

..

Having gained permission from the chief, Roger trotted along the beach, feeling relieved from having to carry a sharpened stick everywhere. He kind of wanted to carry it, to destroy random obstacles on his way, but then he remembered someone telling him that destroying things was bad, not the people in the world before the island, but someone on this island. Roger had once again realized that he had forgotten the person's name, or who that person even was. The only clue he had was the strange vividness of the blue flower on the person's tangled hair, and an S, and an I.

And an M.

Roger felt the humid wind tickling his skin, his black hair, again, flew free. He looked down to his walking feet, watching the toes digging into the sand, then lifted, then dug, then lifted again. His skin, oddly, did not get any darker than how it was before the island. That, plus the fact that he had the darkest hair and pure black eyes had always given the littluns the irrational fear of him being a vampire. It was not until Jack had confirmed he was not a vampire, and forbidded the kids from ever talking about that subject did they stop doubting Roger's mortality.

Feeling like a big black cloud was following him, Roger's black eyes looked up to the sky, but it was completely sunny, and what was up above was a clear light blue. Like chief's eyes, Roger compared. He rubbed his temples and stared down to the ground to try to get rid of the headache that suddenly appeared. The sky was too bright for him. A long sigh escaped his lips as he kept walking, trying to remember the reason why another letter appeared in his mind, after S and I. He wrote the letters in his palm with his finger, continuously, so that he would not forget them, for he knew he would.

S I M S I M

The pattern repeated, even without his acknowledgement. Roger looked up, finding himself facing the sea, the waves crashed into his feet, bringing a little of the soaked sand that was burrying his toes away. He stared at the horizon, confused of how he had even gotten to that part of the island. The cry of the cicadas echoed from the jungle, and the sea was never done with taking away what the shore had. Roger glanced sideways, and his eyes caught a figure lying on the sand, half of its body was still hit by the waves. He walked there, trying not to get too interested in how his toes were buried under the wet sand that felt like mud.

Roger pulled the body out of the water, and was surprised to see holes that looked like the person had been stabbed by countless sticks, or objects of that size. He ran his finger across the sliperry skin. The person had a deep tan complexion, much contrast to his. The person was wearing only gray boy shorts that looked similar to what he was wearing, though his was dry and smeared with dried pig blood and face paint, while the other's was soaked and had some hints of blood on them. Roger put one of his arms underneath the body, and flipped it over.

His pupils dilated, and his heart felt like it had stopped.

The person's eyes were shut, and his brows were two nice curves above the closed eyelids. His lips looked like they were curving up into a happy smile. And his hair was dark brown, soaked with water. The blue flower had probably been washed by away by the ruthless ocean, but Roger did not need it to haunt and cruelly remind him anymore. The seemingly sleeping face had already burned into his mind, viciously making him reminisce what he had been trying to shield himself from, and all of the sudden, the letters appeared again, though this time, they were immediate, with an addition of two more.

"Simon."

The cicadas kept crying their sorrowful songs, and the waves were still slowly taking away grains of salt from the shore.