"...got?" Sally had been calling her name from down the path, trying to get her attention, always glad to see the one female that she thought of as a genuine friend. "Margot?" she asked again, slightly more concerned when she seemed to be standing there idly and doing nothing at all.
"Hmm?" Margot glanced over her shoulder, catching sight of Sally. She wondered how long she'd been calling her. Margot had been off in her own little world.
"Is something wrong?" she asked Sally mildly. She was still holding the finger - her finger - and the cigarette in her other hand had burnt down to the butt.
"No, I was just calling you," she admitted, knowing that she could lie and say there was something urgent like a Man Emergency, but she knew better than to use up all her cries on that. The last thing she wanted to be was the Girl Who Cried Bad Boyfriend one too many times. "Your cigarette's almost out," she pointed out.
Margot looked at it. "Oh," she said, frowning slightly. She sighed and dropped it, grinding it out with the toe of her tennis shoe. She didn't lament the wasted cigarette too much, though; she was preoccupied with her finger.
"What do you think I'm supposed to do with this?" she asked, holding it up so Sally could see.
Since the last time they had spoken, Dieter had run out of cigarettes, now relegated to scrounging up what he could at the mercy of the general island population. This wasn't, as it turned out, too much of a bad thing, as he'd relegated his new-found restlessness to building a residence of his own, outside of the Compound. Coming down the path, what clothes he had (both brought with him from his own world and what the clothes box had given him that he'd taken a fancy to) wrapped in a sheet and tucked under his arm, he paused when he saw Margot, cocking an eyebrow at the item in his hand.
Margot glanced over her shoulder, recognizing the German after a moment. She couldn't immediately recall his name or if she'd even asked for it, the last time they'd met. She'd been distracted by the cigarette.
Offering up what could pass as a smile, he shifted the bundle under his arm, eyes glancing over the stump and the axe and beginning to draw together a hazy conclusion.
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"Is something wrong?" she asked Sally mildly. She was still holding the finger - her finger - and the cigarette in her other hand had burnt down to the butt.
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"What do you think I'm supposed to do with this?" she asked, holding it up so Sally could see.
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"I assume that's not the eponymous hors d'œuvre."
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"I hope not," she said.
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"Yours?"
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This island sometimes did things like that, she knew.
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