The tent flap's rustle snapped my attention away from the delicate balance of medical attention and wary observation I had been maintaining. Since Luke's departure, Duke had appointed himself Jamie's unwavering guardian, a role he assumed with a silent, imposing presence that filled the tent. Despite my initial reluctance to bridge the gap between us, Jamie's insistence on fostering a truce between Duke and me was something I couldn't easily dismiss.

Kneeling on the tent floor, the coolness of the ground seeping through the fabric of my clothing, I found myself reflecting on the oddity of my current task. Here I was, a doctor, used to navigating the complexities of human anatomy and illness, now attempting to navigate the complexities of animal behaviour—specifically, that of a small dog whose loyalty to Jamie was as admirable as it was challenging.

I grudgingly retrieved a treat, a small peace offering in the silent negotiation between Duke and myself. The act, while simple, felt strangely significant, a gesture of goodwill in the midst of uncertainty. Yet, despite my efforts, Duke remained unmoved, his loyalty to Jamie a barrier he was not yet willing to let down for me. The treat, an olive branch extended in the hope of mutual understanding, lay ignored between us.

The boy's stubborn refusal to accept my offering left me feeling oddly disheartened. In the grand scheme of our situation, the dog's acceptance or rejection of me should have been trivial. And yet, as I looked at Duke, his stance resolute and protective, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of respect for his unwavering loyalty.

Paul's entrance, marked by his cautious effort not to spill the water he carried, brought with it a wave of concern. His rapid-fire questions, laced with worry, barely allowed me a moment to compose a response. "I'm fine," I assured him, trying to downplay the incident with Duke and the minor injury it had caused. "It's just a surface wound. This shirt is just a precaution until Luke gets back with some antiseptic." My words were meant to reassure, to minimise the concern that Paul's furrowed brow betrayed.

"But, what…?" Paul's voice trailed off, his confusion evident. The situation, already tense, was further complicated by Jamie's interjection. "Duke doesn't like her," he stated bluntly, an echo of the dog's earlier aggression. "And neither do I," he added, his voice carrying a chill that seemed to lower the temperature within the tent.

"Jamie!" Paul's scold was immediate, a reflexive defence against Jamie's harsh words. Yet Jamie's dismissal of my presence, his assertion that I shouldn't be here, hung heavily in the air, a palpable tension that threatened to escalate.

My gaze towards Paul was a silent plea for caution, a recognition of the volatile nature of Jamie's current state. The pain and disorientation he was experiencing, compounded by the unfamiliar environment, rendered him unpredictable. My priority was to avoid any further confrontation that might exacerbate the situation.

Paul, however, was undeterred by my silent warning. His retort to Jamie was impassioned, a vehement defence of my role in Jamie's survival. "If she wasn't here, you'd be bloody dead within a few days!" His words, though harsh, were a stark reminder of the gravity of Jamie's condition and the necessity of my presence.

Jamie's reaction, a soft moan as he attempted to shift his position, was a reminder of his vulnerability beneath the veneer of hostility. "You'd best stay on your back for now," I advised, my voice carrying both a professional firmness and an undercurrent of compassion. The directive was not just a medical recommendation but an attempt to reestablish a semblance of order within the chaos of emotions and pain that filled the tent.

In that moment, the complexity of our situation was laid bare—a delicate balance between medical necessity, interpersonal dynamics, and the raw, human experience of suffering and survival. My role as a doctor had never felt more challenging, nor more critical, as I navigated the fine line between providing care and managing the fragile egos and emotions of those under my care.

Paul took several steps. "I've brought you some clean water," he said, pushing Duke away with his foot and placing the small bucket in front of me. He turned and walked out the tent.

Submerging a fresh t-shirt into the bucket, I felt a sudden, unexpected exhilaration as my fingers made contact with the cool liquid. The sensation was almost electric, a stark contrast to the tension that had filled the tent moments before. "How interesting," I found myself murmuring, a sense of wonder momentarily distracting me from the severity of our circumstances. The properties of the water here in Clivilius, or perhaps the simple act of cleansing, seemed to carry a significance I hadn't anticipated.

As I wrung out the shirt, watching the clear droplets fall back into the bucket, I turned my attention to Jamie and Duke. The dog's hesitant approach, his wary circling of the space between us, prompted me to offer a solution. "Do you want to hold him?" I suggested, indicating Duke with a nod. The idea was practical, a way to keep Duke calm and contained while I attended to Jamie's wounds.

Jamie's response, a pat on the bed to invite Duke closer, was a silent affirmation of our mutual goal—to provide care. Duke's compliance, his willing leap onto the bed beside Jamie, was a small victory, a moment of cooperation in an otherwise fraught environment.

As Jamie held Duke, creating a small island of calm on one side of the tent, I approached to wash Jamie's chest. The silence that enveloped us was heavy with significance, a shared understanding that transcended words. The act of cleansing, of washing away the physical remnants of Jamie's ordeal, was imbued with a deeper meaning—a gesture of healing, of starting anew.

Standing at the corner of the tent, a brief respite from the intensity of the medical emergencies inside allowed me a moment of reflection. My gaze found Paul, isolated on the riverbank, his posture closed off with arms tightly folded across his chest—a silent testament to the weight of thoughts or concerns he might be carrying.

"It's a good spot for a nice bridge," I ventured softly, breaking the quiet that enveloped us as I approached. My comment, intended to bridge not just the physical gap between the riverbanks but perhaps also the emotional distance that seemed to hang between us, startled Paul. His reaction, a quick jump and a turn of his head, was a reminder of the tension that underpinned existence here.

"It is," Paul's response was simple, an acknowledgment that carried with it an undercurrent of agreement or perhaps a shared vision for a future that seemed so uncertain.

As I moved to stand beside him, the expanse of the river before us became a focal point for a moment of shared contemplation. It can't be more than twenty metres wide at this point, I estimated silently, my eyes tracing the contours of the landscape that lay beyond. The view, with its arid dust hills rolling into the distance under the clear, unyielding sky, held a desolate beauty that was hard to ignore.

"It's oddly beautiful, isn't it?" I found myself saying aloud, an attempt to vocalise the mixture of awe and melancholy that the scene evoked within me. The beauty of the place, so stark and unforgiving, seemed at odds with the struggles we had already faced.

"It is," Paul echoed his earlier sentiment, his question catching me slightly off guard. "How are you so relaxed with all of this?" His curiosity seemed genuine.

I folded my arms across my chest, mirroring his posture, and shrugged slightly—a physical attempt to convey the nonchalance I was far from feeling. "I'm a doctor," I replied, the words carrying more weight than they might seem. "It's my job to be calm." It was a simplified explanation for what was, in reality, a complex balancing act of emotions and responsibilities.

Paul's smile in response, "Fair call," was a relief. It meant I could avoid delving deeper into the fears and uncertainties that lurked beneath my composed exterior. As my gaze drifted back to the river, a thought struck me with sudden clarity—Father could be anywhere. The realisation was daunting, a vast unknown that seemed as wide and insurmountable as the river before us.

"We will build a bridge," I found myself declaring with a confidence that surprised even me. The metaphorical significance of the statement wasn't lost on me; it was about more than just a physical structure—it was about making connections, overcoming obstacles, and perhaps finding my father.

"We can't," Paul countered, shaking his head, his objection pulling me back from my reverie of determination.

"Can't?" I challenged, the word feeling like a denial of the possibility I had just envisioned. "Of course, we can." My belief in our ability to overcome, to build and create, was unwavering.

"We don't have any materials," Paul pointed out, a practical concern that momentarily dampened my resolve.

"Luke will get them for us," I asserted, my faith in Luke's capabilities stemming from more than just hope. I know how this works. If Luke really is a Guardian, like my father, he'll bring us the best Earth has to offer to help us. The thought was a tether to a larger purpose, to a belief in the support networks we had, seen and unseen.

I nudged Paul's crossed arms with my elbow, trying to lighten the mood with a bit of humour. "And I thought you were the optimistic one." It was a gentle tease, a reminder that optimism was a choice, a perspective we could adopt even in the face of adversity.

Paul's eyes narrowed in thought, a moment of introspection before he finally responded. "I am," he affirmed.

Hearing Luke's voice call out, a blend of urgency and relief, my heart lifted. His return marked not just the arrival of the much-needed medical supplies but also a reinforcement of our small team's resilience and capability. "Glenda! Paul!" The sound of my name, called out across the distance, was a beacon pulling me back toward the centre of our operations, toward the heart of our makeshift camp.

I couldn't help but smile, a spontaneous reaction to the anticipation of what Luke had managed to gather. "Come," I urged Paul, my steps quickening as we made our way back to the tent.

As we entered the tent, the sight of Jamie attempting to discreetly wipe away his tears was a poignant reminder of the reason behind our urgent need for supplies. His vulnerability in that moment, juxtaposed with the stoic front he had tried to maintain earlier, underscored the complexity of our situation.

"You okay?" asked Luke, abandoning the bags he was carrying and rushing to Jamie's side.

"Yeah," Jamie's response, though sniffed back through pain, was an attempt to reassure, to minimise his suffering in the eyes of his partner. His admission, "Just in a lot of pain," was a stark admission of his vulnerability.

My attention, momentarily diverted by the exchange between Luke and Jamie, turned to the bags Luke had brought. Peering inside the first one, a wave of relief washed over me. Luke has done very well. The supplies, even from my brief glimpse, promised a significant improvement in my ability to provide care. My smile, hidden from view, was one of profound gratitude for Luke's successful scavenging.

"You'll be right now," Luke assured Jamie. "I've got you some strong pain medication."

As I directed Paul to spread a spare blanket across the floor for the medical supplies, my mind was already cataloging what we needed versus what we had. The sense of order, a principle so deeply ingrained in my medical training, provided a semblance of control in an otherwise unpredictable situation. Paul moved quickly to prepare the space, his actions reflecting the urgency of our collective effort.

As I began sorting through the bags, laying out the supplies on the blanket, the methodical nature of the task was oddly comforting. Each item placed down was a small victory, a piece of the puzzle in my quest to provide the best possible care under the circumstances.

Luke's voice broke through my concentration. "I'm pretty sure I've got all the items on the list without an asterisk," he said, a hint of uncertainty in his voice. "But I'll have to go back now and check the supply room for the rest." The nervous shifting of his weight did not escape my notice, sparking a brief flare of frustration within me. Now's not the time for your nerves to play up, Luke.

"Yes," I responded, trying to mask my own concern with a veneer of calm authority. "I will need the antiseptic and antibiotics. I can't dress Jamie's wounds properly without them." The importance of those items could not be overstated; without them, our ability to prevent infection and promote healing was severely compromised.

"Go," I insisted, my tone leaving no room for hesitation. Jamie's pained moan, a sharp reminder of the stakes at hand, punctuated the urgency of the moment. "Just try to relax," I told him, my attention briefly shifting to offer a word of comfort, knowing all too well the limitations of what comfort I could provide without the necessary supplies.

Turning back to Luke, I mouthed a silent "Go," a final push to expedite his departure. His silent nod in response, a mutual understanding of the gravity of the situation, was the last interaction before he stepped out to fulfil the critical task.

"Not much longer now," I reassured Jamie, trying to infuse my voice with as much confidence and comfort as I could muster. The promise of pain relief and rest was not just a medical intervention; it was a beacon of hope in the dimness of his current suffering. "And I'll have something to take the pain away and help you sleep." Jamie's response, a loud exhale, was heavy with the weight of enduring pain and the anticipation of relief.

"Well, if you don't need me, Glenda, I'll go and see if I can finish getting this other tent up," Paul said, his willingness to contribute to our shared effort evident in his readiness to take on another task.

"That's fine," I replied, my mind already juggling the tasks at hand with those that lay ahead. "I'll come and help you when I've sorted Jamie.”

In the stillness of the tent, time seemed to pause, the silence wrapping around us like a tangible presence. It was a moment of uneasy anticipation, each of us caught in our own thoughts, waiting for the next step in our collective struggle for stability in this alien environment.

The arrival of Luke, laden with more bags of medical supplies, broke the spell. His entrance, a promise of relief and support, was a welcome disruption to the heavy quiet. "How did you go?" I couldn't help but express my surprise at the volume of supplies he brought back. The essentials I had marked with asterisks, I had assumed, would not require so much space.

Luke's grin was a mix of pride and mischief, a hint that there was more to his haul than met the eye. "I'm pretty sure I've got everything on your list," he boasted, his confidence sparking a flicker of hope within me. Yet, the sight of the bags prompted a question in my mind, Why so many bags?

"Oh," he added, almost as an afterthought, "And then I just grabbed a heap of random stuff for good measure. I'm not really sure what any of it is to be honest." His admission, candid and a little reckless, was quintessentially Luke—a mixture of thoroughness and a dash of impulsiveness.

"Well, that's not surprising," Jamie managed a soft chuckle, his voice a blend of amusement and discomfort.

"Thank you, Luke," I said sincerely, my gratitude extending beyond the supplies he had procured. The effort, the risk he took on our behalf, was not lost on me. As I reached for the morphine, my movements were methodical, each action informed by years of training and experience. The preparation of the syringe, the swabbing of Jamie's arm with antiseptic, and the quick, efficient way I administered the injection were all part of the routine, yet in this setting, each step felt imbued with greater significance.

The effect of the medication was almost immediate. Jamie's body, previously tense with pain, began to relax, a visual testament to the relief coursing through his veins. His struggle to keep his eyes open, the fluttering of his eyelids as sleep beckoned, was a poignant reminder of the body's need for rest, for a reprieve from pain.

As Jamie drifted off to sleep, a sense of accomplishment, however small, settled over me. The immediate crisis had been averted, Jamie was comfortable, and for the moment, we could all breathe a little easier.

Luke's question, laden with concern and barely concealed fear, cut through the relative calm that had settled over the tent. "He's going to be okay, isn't he?" His voice was soft, vulnerable, a stark contrast to the strength he had consistently shown. Turning to meet his gaze, I found his eyes reflecting the turmoil of emotions that I, too, was struggling to keep at bay. "I hope so," was the only assurance I could offer, a truth wrapped in the reality of our uncertain circumstances.

Luke gripped my shoulder firmly. "I have to go," he stated, a resolve in his voice that belied the emotion I had seen in his eyes moments before. My nod in response was an acknowledgment of the necessity of his departure, a silent conveyance of understanding and support.

Luke's apology, "I'm so sorry, Glenda," added a layer of sombreness to the moment. It was an expression of empathy, of shared hardship, and perhaps, an acknowledgment of the weight of the decisions he’d be forced to make in their struggle for survival. "You did the right thing, Luke," I found myself saying, an attempt to provide him with the reassurance he needed. The bite of my lip was involuntary, a physical attempt to steady myself against the surge of emotions his words had evoked. The realisation of my permanence in Clivilius, the acknowledgment that Earth was now a part of a past I could never return to, was a heavy burden to bear.

"Now, go and do what you need to," I urged him, my voice steady despite the tumult within. It was a send-off, a command to face whatever lay ahead with courage and purpose.

As Luke stood and made his way to the tent's entrance, his posture spoke volumes. The droop of his head, the slow, measured steps, were all indicative of the weight his Guardianship carried as he prepared to step back into the unknown.

"And go confidently," I called out after him, a final piece of encouragement, a reminder of the strength and determination that had brought him this far. It was a plea for him to hold onto that confidence, to remember that, despite the uncertainties and dangers, he was capable of facing whatever challenges lay ahead.

Luke paused, a silent acknowledgment of my words. The slow raise of his head, a sign of acceptance, perhaps even a spark of the confidence I had implored him to embrace, was the last I saw before he disappeared from view.

Kneeling beside Jamie, the world outside the tent seemed to fade into the background, leaving me enveloped in a silence that was both comforting and oppressive. The solitude of the moment allowed my professional façade to slip, revealing the raw emotions I had been keeping at bay. My eyes, a testament to the strain and fatigue of the past hours, betrayed me, releasing a single tear that traced a slow path down my cheek. The physical manifestations of my stress—my throbbing head and the incessant itch on my arm from Duke's earlier aggression—were mere echoes of the turmoil within.

As another tear followed the first, a physical acknowledgment of my sorrow, I instinctively wrapped my arms around myself in a self-embrace. It was a futile attempt to ward off the overwhelming sense of emptiness that surged through me. This emptiness wasn't just the physical absence of those I cared about; it was a profound sense of isolation, a realisation of the vast distance between this world and everything I had known and loved.

The emotional dam broke, and a deep, heaving sob wracked my body, a release of all the pent-up fear, anxiety, and sorrow that I had been carrying. The cry that escaped my lips was loud, raw, and unfiltered, a sound of pure anguish that I would have once sought to muffle, to hide from the ears of others. But in that moment, the realisation hit me with crushing clarity: there was no Pierre here to hear my cries, to offer words of comfort or a reassuring embrace. Not this time.

I am alone.