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petticoat skirt to make bandages.
    “Shouldn’t we clean it with hot water, Mrs. Campbell? Or disinfect it somehow?” I’m thinking of my first-aid course.
    “Oh, it’ll be fine, Bonnie.”
    Mom trained as a nurse and I’m not squeamish about blood and stuff, but the leg is red and swollen. Infections from coral cuts are common in the tropics. Some of that purple disinfectant we buy at the base shop would have been useful.
    “If you fuss you’ll only frighten her. We’ll be home the day after tomorrow and she’ll get proper medical treatment. We’re doing fine for now.” This is the first time Mrs. Campbell has spoken to me since her outburst last night, and I’m relieved.
    I lead another search party to look for any other usefuldebris from last night’s storm. No luck, but I do find an amazing large empty shell. I think it’s a conch. I take it back with me. They had a conch in
Lord of the Flies
and used it to call everyone together for meetings. And whoever spoke in meetings got to hold the conch, and all the others had to listen. I tell the others that you can blow into it and make a loud trumpeting sound, but we all try and only Hope can do it.
    I suggest we tie rags over our noses and mouths to help keep the sand out. It helps.
    Then Hope has an idea. Somehow she’s managed to salvage her supply of those old-fashioned Kotex pads with loops at the end, and she gives each of us one to use as a mask. They really work! We put the loops over our ears. We look so ridiculous, like surgeons in a comedy movie. We laugh for the first time since the storm.
    The laughter stops when we return to the cave and realize we have lost the fire. As darkness falls we huddle together, the Thai barbecue at our feet, the juniors in our arms to keep them feeling safe. Sandy’s sister, Carly, still hasn’t spoken, and she’s pale and listless.
    “Let’s sing!” Mrs. Campbell smiles brightly at us.
    So we sing all the songs we can think of, from the Beatles to the Beach Boys. Mrs. Campbell, Arlene, and May know all the lyrics. We try to harmonize like the real bands do but we’re rubbish. It helps take our minds off our troubles, but I keep finding my thoughts driftingaway, back to poor Sandy. Flashbacks—the sleeping bag blown through the air, wrapping itself around the palm tree. Sandy inside, alone, dead.
    My thoughts are almost noisy enough to drown out the sound of the songs and the wind and the rain.
    Natalie is still asleep but it’s not a natural sleep. I put my hand on her forehead like Mom does when I’m feeling ill, and she’s feverish.
    “What did I say about fussing?” Mrs. Campbell reminds me, but not unkindly. “You’ll only upset her, or Jody….” And she points at Jody, who is whispering to herself or to the invisible Mikey. But I think Natalie needs more care than we’re giving her.
    Mom should be here. She’d know how to help Natalie. She’s the most capable person I know. Most days when she drives into Pattaya to get the groceries there’s a line of sick Thais waiting for a lift to the local clinic. Mom’s become the local ambulance service, fitting in the clinic visits between shopping.
    A few weeks ago a U.S. Marine hammered at our door in the early hours of the morning. His yelling woke me. He was carrying his unconscious Thai girlfriend in his arms. She had bad head injuries. Robbers had fixed a trip wire across the road that had knocked them from his motorbike. His wallet and passport were gone.
    Mom wrapped a towel around the girl’s head and drove them to the all-night clinic in Pattaya. The doctor coulddo nothing for her and sent them by taxi to Bangkok, which is a two-hour drive away. Mom lent them the fare.
    Recently the Marine returned with the cash to thank Mom for her help. His girlfriend is fine, recovering from her injuries.
    I look around at us now, huddling, cranky and miserable. Mom would know what to do. She’s always on top of things. She would soon have us organized.