Jon lay stretched on the beach, his shirt balled up behind his head like a pillow. His eyes were closed and he listened to the sound of the surf crashing against the shore. This is the life.
Jon opened his eyes. No, this was not the life. This was an island, somewhere in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. And he had been shipwrecked here five days ago. He wasn’t worried though. On TV and in the movies, someone always found the guy deserted on the island. He just had to wait.
No effort was required. No need to hunt; he would be rescued. No need to make signal fires; he would be rescued. No need to give a damn; he would be rescued.
So for now, Jon closed his eyes again. He let his mind wander, making up horror stories for when he was rescued. He wouldn’t have a scraggly beard, but he could lie about having to shave with stones or something. And he would make up hunting stories and crazy survival stories with wild beasts…
Jon shook himself awake. Someone would come. Someone would. He had only been asleep, waiting, for three years now.
Someone would come.