The sudden shift in Karen's demeanour broke through the intensity of our discussion like a cold wave, redirecting our focus from the heated debate to the palpable tension between her and Chris. Her voice, sharp with irritation, sliced through the night air, targeting Chris with a question that seemed to echo my own observations. I had been so engrossed in our conversation that Chris's restless movements had been nothing more than a peripheral blur until now. Yet, with Karen's pointed inquiry, his unease became the centre of our collective attention.

I found myself momentarily stepping back from the fervour of our debate, using Karen's interruption as an opportunity to breathe and recalibrate. My fingers pressed against my forehead, a subconscious gesture aimed at smoothing away the creases of frustration and fatigue that had settled there. Around us, the camp life continued in its own rhythm, with small clusters of our group seeking respite from the main fire, their silhouettes fragmented by shadows and light.

Chris's response was almost lost in the shuffle of our movement, his voice low and tinged with a discomfort that seemed out of place with his usual composure. The sheen of sweat on his forehead was a testament to the fire's intensity, or perhaps it was a reflection of his inner turmoil. His words, "It's nothing," felt hollow, a placeholder response that did little to quell the curiosity his behaviour had sparked.

Karen's patience, already worn thin, snapped with a sharpness that startled me. Her demand for honesty, "Just spit it out, would you!" carried an edge of desperation, a plea for clarity amidst the growing confusion. It was a side of Karen that revealed the depth of her concern and her intolerance for evasion.

In that moment, witnessing the strain between Karen and Chris, something within me shifted. The earlier tension from our debate, the sense of being on the back foot, began to dissipate, replaced by a newfound sense of composure. Karen's distraction with Chris's behaviour had inadvertently handed me an advantage, a psychological upper hand that I hadn't anticipated but was now keen to embrace.

This renewed confidence was not born from a desire to exploit Karen’s moment of vulnerability but from recognising an opportunity to reassess my approach to our discussion. Karen's weary state, her focus divided between her husband's mysterious discomfort and our conversation, offered me a chance to collect my thoughts and prepare for the next phase of our debate with a clearer mind and a strategic advantage.

The tension in the air was almost tangible as we huddled closer, the campfire casting long shadows that danced around us. Chris's actions had drawn our collective attention, a silent question hanging between us as he reached into his pocket. His movements were deliberate, each one marked by a visible tension, as if he were about to reveal a secret long kept. With his top teeth firmly biting into his lower lip, a gesture of nervous anticipation or perhaps apprehension, he slowly withdrew his hand. It was not empty but instead held several small objects, which he cautiously extended toward us in the flickering firelight.

I couldn't help the gasp that escaped me, my usual composure momentarily forgotten in the face of the unexpected. "Fascinating," I whispered, the word barely more than a breath as I carefully picked up one of the small, metallic objects. Holding it barely an inch from my face, I examined it closely, the intricate details barely discernible in the dim light yet enough to pique my curiosity further.

Karen's voice, impatient and tinged with curiosity, broke the momentary silence. "What are they?" she demanded, snatching another of the objects from Chris's open palm, her gaze intense as she sought to uncover their secrets alongside me.

Chris, wiping away the sweat that had formed on his brow replied with a hint of uncertainty, "I think they might be coins of some sort, but I'm not really sure."

The metal felt cool and heavy in my hand, its surface etched with symbols and letters that spoke of places and stories yet to be understood. "Chewbathia," I read aloud, the name unfamiliar yet filled with an inexplicable significance. My eyes, squinting in the attempt to make out the letters, suddenly lifted to meet Chris's gaze. "Yes, it's a coin," I stated, my voice now filled with a confidence that surprised even me.

Karen's skepticism was immediate, her eyes narrowing as she challenged my assertion. "How do you know for certain?" she asked, her tone reflecting her doubt and pushing me to defend my newfound conviction.

I barely heard Karen's question as I continued to study the coin, my mind racing to connect this moment with the fragmented pieces of stories my father had once shared. The skepticism in Karen's voice faded into the background as I delved deeper into my thoughts, trying to recall any mention of Chewbathia in my father's tales. This was more than just a coin; it was a piece of a puzzle that I hadn't even known was missing, a clue to histories and worlds that suddenly seemed within reach.

"I think the markings of the twenty cliv make it rather obvious," Chris said, his voice steady, imbuing the air with a gravity that demanded consideration. The coin, small yet significant, lay between us as evidence to his claim.

"It means we're not alone," I found myself responding, the words tumbling out in a rush of excitement that I couldn't contain. The possibility, the mere hint of another civilisation, sparked a torrent of thoughts and emotions within me. Yet, as quickly as the words left my mouth, a silent command took hold. Say no more. Not yet. There was a caution in the back of my mind, a whisper urging restraint amidst the thrill of discovery.

Karen's skepticism served as a counterbalance to our growing enthusiasm. "We don't know that," she cautioned, her eyes narrowed in the dim light as she examined the coin with a critical eye. "This looks quite dated." Her words were a reminder of the chasm between discovery and understanding, between the thrill of speculation and the weight of proof.

Her observation echoed within me, resonating with a truth I had long sensed but never fully acknowledged. It is, my mind whispered back, a silent acknowledgment of the coin's age and the vast history it represented. Chewbathia, as my father had described, was a world apart, a civilisation that had flourished in secrecy, its culture and people evolving along paths divergent from our own Earthly experiences. The realisation that the fragments of information my father had shared were but a glimpse of a much larger, much older story caused a tightness in my chest, a mix of wonder and frustration.

As Karen scrutinised the coin, my thoughts drifted to my father, to the fleeting mentions of Chewbathia and the palpable tension that had always accompanied those discussions. My shoulders tensed reflexively, a physical manifestation of the unease that memory evoked. There had been something in his demeanour, a hesitancy, perhaps even fear, that had led him to steer away from the topic, leaving me with more questions than answers.

What had he been so afraid to tell me? The question hung heavily in the air, its weight suffocating in the silence that followed Karen's words. A dark foreboding clouded my excitement, tainting it with the bitter taste of unanswered questions and unexplored truths. The acidic taste of uncertainty lingered, a stark reminder of the complexities and potential dangers that lay hidden within our newfound discovery. The coin, for all its physical insignificance, had become a symbol of a vast, uncharted territory that we were only beginning to understand, a key to a door that had long been closed.

Chris's assertion sliced through the silence that had momentarily enveloped us, his excitement barely contained, giving his words an urgency that resonated with my own swirling thoughts. "But it must mean that people have been here before us," he declared, a revelation that seemed as profound as it was unsettling. "We're not the first." The weight of his conclusion hung in the air, thick with implications and unspoken questions.

Indeed we're not, echoed silently within me, my mind racing to piece together the puzzle laid bare by the discovery of the coins. The presence of such artefacts here, in the wilderness, far from any known civilisation, hinted at a history and a connection to Chewbathia that was both thrilling and terrifying. My brow creased with concern, the thrill of discovery now shadowed by the practical implications of our find. What are the coins doing out here? The question churned in my mind, giving rise to a more pressing concern: Are we near the city? The possibility that we might inadvertently be treading on the doorstep of an unknown civilisation, potentially under the watchful gaze of its inhabitants, sent a shiver of fear down my spine. Are we being watched?

Karen's voice, pragmatic and grounded, broke through my spiralling thoughts. "We should tell Paul," she suggested, her hand outstretched, expecting the return of the second coin. Her suggestion, though well-intentioned, struck me as premature, a potential misstep given the myriad of unknowns we were facing.

"I don't think that is wise," I found myself responding, my grip on the coin tightening reflexively. The instinct to protect our discovery, to shield it from scrutiny until we had a clearer understanding, was overpowering. There are too many unknowns. The realisation that sharing this information prematurely could trigger a defensive, possibly obstructive response from Paul was clear in my mind. His protective instincts, while invaluable, could inadvertently quash any hope of further exploration or understanding. I need to find Chewbathia! The thought was a beacon, guiding my resolve to tread carefully, to keep the secret just a little longer.

Karen's reaction was immediate, her mouth tightening, lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval. "Why not?" she pressed, her voice tinged with frustration and disbelief. Her demand for justification hung between us, a challenge to my decision to withhold information.

"He is too busy," I offered, a simplified excuse that veiled my true concerns. The decision to keep my thoughts and the coin to myself was not made lightly, but out of a necessity to navigate the delicate balance between caution and curiosity. If Karen's doing the same, then it's only fair, I rationalised, seeking to justify my reluctance to share, even as I recognised the complexities of the situation.

Karen's response was a huff of frustration, her impatience manifesting in the sharp gesture of her fingers, a silent demand for me to relinquish the artefact. The tension between us was palpable, a reflection of the broader uncertainties and fears that the discovery of the coins had unearthed.

Chris's words, though hesitant, offered a sliver of validation that my stance might hold merit. "Perhaps Glenda is right," he mused, his gesture to take back the coin from Karen a physical endorsement of his newfound agreement with my perspective. His shrug, seemingly nonchalant, belied the gravity of our discussion. "Until we know more about them, there's probably no point saying anything to Paul."

"Yes," I chimed in, eager to bolster this line of reasoning before Karen could mount another counterargument. "Paul has enough on his mind with trying to get the settlement up and running." The mention of Paul's myriad responsibilities was not just a diversion; it was a stark reality. The weight of establishing a new community from the ground up was immense, and every additional concern could tip the scales towards chaos.

"And dealing with Luke," Chris added, reminding us of the interpersonal dynamics that further complicated our leadership's already Herculean task.

Yet, Karen's resolve was unyielding, her belief in transparency with Paul unshaken. "As our delegated leader, I still think Paul should know." Her insistence, while admirable in its loyalty, felt dangerously naïve given the stakes.

Driven by a mix of frustration and urgency, I found myself snapping, a rare loss of composure on my part. "No," I declared, seizing the momentary shock on Karen's face to reclaim the second coin from her grasp. The act was impulsive, driven by a conviction that the risk of wider knowledge was too great.

Karen's reaction was immediate and fiery. "Give that back!" she demanded, her anger palpable, almost as vivid and threatening as the campfire that crackled in the background. Yet, in that moment, my resolve hardened. "We say nothing to anyone," I stated, the finality in my voice reflecting my determination as I secured the coins in my bra, a makeshift safeguarding that felt both desperate and necessary.

Karen's retort, a visceral "That's not your decision to make," accompanied by a bold, unwelcome reach toward my bosom, was met with a fierce rebuke. "Fuck off, Karen!" I snapped, recoiling from her advance with a protective twist of my body. My words, sharp and unyielding, echoed my physical rejection. "I said no."

Her response, a silent, seething retreat into crossed arms and laboured breathing, marked the end of our confrontation. The tension between us, now a tangible divide, left me no choice but to withdraw from her presence. Walking away, the fire's crackle felt like a cautionary backdrop to my retreat, its sparks a warning of the dangers of letting emotions fan the flames of conflict.

"I don't care," I muttered under my breath, a whispered defiance against the turmoil. Catching a glimpse of Karen heading toward her tent, a part of me lamented the rift that had formed. That woman needs to learn her place, I thought, not with malice, but with a weary realisation that our paths to leadership and decision-making were fundamentally at odds. The night's events, a microcosm of our larger struggles, left me questioning not just our immediate dilemma, but the sustainability of our cohesion as a fledgling community.

The tent flap announced my entrance with a loud, unsettling rustle, a prelude to the chaos that ensued. "For fuck's sake!" escaped my lips in a harsh whisper as my foot ensnared itself on the tent's treacherous floor. The world seemed to tilt alarmingly, and in a desperate bid to save myself, I pitched forward. My hands, previously clenched in determination to safeguard the coins hidden within my bra, flew open in an instinctive effort to break my fall. The sensation of the cool metal slipping from my grasp added a pang of panic to the rush of adrenaline. There, in the pitch black of the tent, I found myself sprawled awkwardly on the ground, the indignity of the fall compounded by the urgency to recover the coins. My fingers, now unbidden explorers, scuttled across the tent's rough fabric, seeking out the escaped treasures in the darkness.

As I searched, Joel's song echoed hauntingly in the recesses of my mind, its melody a stark contrast to my current predicament.

"Let us celebrate our story

The words we've yet to write.”

The irony of the situation wasn't lost on me. Here I was, fumbling in the dark, literally and metaphorically, as I grappled with the tangible symbols of an unknown narrative. The cool, rounded edges of the coins finally met my fingertips, their familiar texture a small comfort in the disarray. Clutching them close, I nestled the coins back into their makeshift sanctuary, their presence a reassuring weight against my skin.

"How we all wound up with glory

In the world we fought to right.”

The words resonated deeper as I sat in the darkness, cross-legged and disoriented, not just by my fall but by the weight of our situation. The act of reciting the lyrics aloud brought a moment of clarity amidst the turmoil, a brief respite that allowed my racing heart to steady. Each breath I drew was a conscious effort to anchor myself, not just within the confines of the tent but to the reality of our collective endeavour.

"In the world we fought to right," I murmured to myself, a soft echo of Joel's optimism tinged with my own burgeoning doubts. "But which world?" The question hung in the air, palpable and heavy with implications. Were we fighting for the world we had left behind, or for the one we were attempting to forge here? The duality of the struggle, of our past against our potential future, crystallised in that moment of solitude.