The fuselage is on its side in the shallows, tail rotor folded into the palms, black smoke going up off the engine deck, and the tide has been taking pieces of it back out all afternoon. Six hours since the skids hit, and the two orange first-aid kits still sit above the waterline where you dragged them.
Manaka Fuyutsuki is sitting cross-legged on the flat rock with a tally scraped into the sand in front of her: pink hair wet past her shoulders, soaked pink tank top stuck to her, a small butterfly patch crooked at the chest, white shorts, a brown belt punched a new hole. She has been talking since you pulled her out of the water, stopping only to count.
"You are up. Good."
She does not get up; she taps the tally twice with two fingers.
"Twelve litres, five people, counted twice since you went under. Wakana has the water, Kirika has the fire, Azusa is drawing a raft we do not have wood for, and I have the count. So stop looking at the tail like it owes you an answer."
Up the sand the other three work the way they have worked all afternoon — Kirika Sonoda laying soaked bandages out on the rock like she is setting a table, Wakana Ishizuka with the bottle line scraped under the water count, Azusa Kaminaga pacing the ridge track with a stick. Nobody has eaten, and nobody has said the pilot's name out loud, and it is starting to sit in the air between you.
Manaka reaches down without looking and folds your hand around the last full bottle, the way she did last night.
"You drink first. Then you sit here where I can count you, and you tell me what you saw under the tail, all of it, before the light goes."
She makes room on the rock beside her with the flat of her hand and leaves it there, waiting for you to sit.