He'd woken up with a coarse dryness in his throat, and vicious shards of salt within his lashes.

When he opened his eyes, he pinched them closed upon feeling a deep sting. His fingers dug into the sand beneath his palms, and a shiver struck his skin when a sudden, cold sheet of water draped his ankles.

He had an urge to cough, to weep... but confusion and utter fear invaded him.

His stiff neck rose, and he wiped his sandy palm into his eyes, wincing at the salty burn.

When he tried to move, it felt like he bore the weight of a ship upon his shoulders, like his short legs had been sucked beneath the sand hungrily.

He writhed under weakness, bringing himself closer to the shore. When he was able to flip himself onto his back, he met the sky and his lids ached at the fading sun's greeting.

He wanted to cry, but it seemed he did not have anything within him to release. It was only hours ago that he'd been home, boarded on that ship. His mother squeezing his hand.

And yet, he was on an island, and survived the tumultuous rage of the sea.

He felt a pained loneliness thinking about his mother and only little brother, the fear on both of their faces— the strange anger of his father's.

He would be alone to die on that shore, a perfect feast for a flock of starving birds. When he felt the cold trickle of rain upon his cheeks, his skin felt numb like flesh hours upon a flame.

He clenched his fists beneath the gritty floor, pinching his eyes shut as he cried out into the silent sky, who would never say a word back to him.

Dusk would fall, and Camilo would sleep below the glow of stars.

The big browns of his eyes would pour a blurry stream throughout the night.