The heat of that month offered no mercy.
It was not the kind of heat that came with open sun and clear skies. It was heavy, constant, clinging to the skin even when the wind came in from the sea. Sweat never dried. It only accumulated. Osborn realized this in the first few days, when he began to measure time not by sunrise or sunset, but by how long the body could endure before demanding a pause.
It was in that interval — between work, vigilance, and forced rest — that the idea took shape.
It did not arrive as a plan.
It arrived as irritation.
He watched the group from a distance while pretending to be busy with something else. Children sitting, lying down, dozing. Some played idly with stones, others simply stared at nothing. Bill usually stayed more alert, always half-upright, as if waiting for something to go wrong. Kerr varied: sometimes restless, sometimes far too disconnected.
All of them unarmed.
The only real blade was the simple knife Osborn had carried since the beginning. It was dull now. The shine was gone. It still cut, but more through insistence than efficiency.
That bothered him.
Not because of immediate fear, but because of projection. He knew there was no improvising defense once a problem was already on top of them. If it came to that, it would already be too late.
So he started small.
Without announcing anything.
Without asking for help.
The first time, he brought back only a piece of wood from the forest. He did not choose it for exact size. He chose it for weight. Solid wood, fallen long enough not to be green anymore, but not rotten. He dragged it near the hut and left it there, leaning against the wall, as if it were just another branch.
In the following days, he brought another.
Then another.
Three in total.
Never together.
Never on the same day.
Always in moments when he went out to fetch something and returned as if nothing had happened.
For almost two weeks, those pieces stayed there, unmoving, while the routine continued. Only Osborn touched them. Sometimes he ran a hand over the surface, felt the irregularities, measured in his mind where material needed to be removed, where weight needed to remain.
There was no hurry.
The crafting truly began when he noticed the others no longer paid attention to what he did when he moved a little farther away.
It was always after the group had eaten.
Coconut. Always coconut.
Crack it open, divide it, drink the water, scrape the flesh. Repeat. When everyone was full enough to become sluggish, he stepped a few meters away, sat on a rock, and began.
Stone against wood.
Knife against wood.
Stone again.
It was thankless work. Every splinter taken off demanded strength and patience. The knife slipped if he did not control the angle. His hands burned. Small cuts accumulated. Nothing serious. Nothing worth stopping over.
It took days for the first piece to begin looking like anything other than a branch.
The shape was not elegant. It was functional. A baton, slightly thicker at one end, tapering toward the grip. Weight concentrated where it would cause impact. No sharp points. Nothing fragile enough to break easily.
While the others rested, Osborn worked.
While they slept, he tested the weight, made short movements through the air, felt where the arm tired faster, where adjustments were needed.
When someone approached, he stopped.
He did not hide it.
He simply did not explain.
It took nearly three weeks for the three batons to be finished.
Not three weeks of uninterrupted labor — but three weeks of small advances, of minutes stolen from rest, of silent persistence.
When he finished, he felt no pride.
He felt relief.
That same day, he waited for everyone to gather naturally. He did not call out. He did not shout. He simply waited for the moment when they were together, sitting in a loose, uneven circle, talking about nothing important.
Osborn stood with the three batons in his hands.
Silence came on its own.
"This isn't a toy," he said, without raising his voice. "And it's not for everyone."
Some straightened. Others frowned.
He set the batons on the ground, side by side.
"We've been together here long enough to know this isn't a safe place," he said, pausing briefly. "And it's not going to become one."
No one answered.
"I can't train everyone. And I shouldn't," he continued, looking around without haste. "The more people messing with this without knowing how, the higher the chance everything goes wrong."
Then he pointed to himself.
"Me."
Then to Bill.
"Bill."
Finally, to Kerr.
"And Kerr."
Kerr blinked, surprised.
"The strongest get these," Osborn went on. "Not because they're better. But because they can take more hits and make fewer mistakes at the start."
There was no argument.
He handed the first baton to Bill. The second to Kerr. Kept the third for himself.
"This doesn't change anyone's routine today," he said. "We train separately. Short. Direct. No spectacle."
Bill turned the baton once in his hand, testing the weight. Kerr held his more rigidly, as if afraid of letting it go.
"These are for defending the base," Osborn concluded. "Not for looking for trouble."
After that, there was no more talk.
They stored the batons out of reach of the other children. Not hidden. Just out of sight.
Training began the next day.
Brief.
No formation.
No elaborate instruction.
Simple movements. Straight strikes. Distance control. Stopping short of full impact. Repeating until the arm ached.
Osborn did not speak much. He corrected with gestures. With demonstration. With silence.
Bill learned quickly. Kerr made more mistakes, but he insisted more as well.
Nothing there looked impressive.
But it worked.
And Osborn knew: this was not the end of anything.It was only the first step required so that the next one would not be suicide.