On the island they talk about everything, but they don’t talk about love. Conversation is constant, even after the day’s tasks are done, goals achieved, challenges met. Once they’ve banked the fire, posted a sentry, checked the stars once last time for messages, they collapse into a makeshift yurt, crawl beneath a ledge or igloo or shelter of hardened mud, huddle together for warmth – that’s when the whispers arise: Did you hear something? Do you think they’ve forgotten? I’m cold. How did this happen? What in God’s name is that smell?