Sitting cross-legged in the dust beside Paul, I found a moment of tranquility as we both watched the day's light fade, the sun's final rays disappearing into the horizon. The campfire before us, with its steady plume of smoke ascending into the calm air, provided a focal point for reflection, its crackling flames consuming Paul's empty paper plate with a voraciousness that felt almost comforting. It was in this simple act of destruction and warmth that my face finally softened, a physical manifestation of the tension easing from my muscles.

The task of setting up the tent, undertaken mostly in a companionable silence, had been a welcome distraction. Paul's sensitivity to my need for quiet, for space to process the day's tumultuous events, was a kindness I hadn't fully anticipated but was profoundly grateful for. His presence, unobtrusive yet steadfast, had allowed me the room to navigate my own turmoil internally, while we worked side by side to secure our immediate shelter and safety.

In the aftermath, I busied myself with organising our supplies, moving food and medical necessities into the new tent, a necessary task that offered its own form of meditation. Paul, in the meantime, had taken on the role of firekeeper, coaxing life into the flames that now offered us both light and warmth.

Now, as the evening settled around us, with Jamie still lost to the world of sleep, it was just Paul and me sitting in the quiet. The fire before us danced and flickered, casting a warm glow that illuminated our small circle of existence against the encroaching darkness.

I found myself tapping my empty plate against my knee, a nervous habit that betrayed the undercurrent of anxiety still running through me. After watching Paul's plate reduce to ash, I made the decision to let mine follow, tossing it into the flames. The brief flare of energy as the fire consumed it mirrored my fleeting moment of stillness.

But peace was elusive, and my fingers soon began to wiggle restlessly on my thighs, a physical manifestation of the unease that wound tightly within me. Despite the calm of the evening and the soothing presence of the fire, my mind raced with thoughts of the day past and the uncertainties that lay ahead. The simplicity of our current setting, the quiet companionship of Paul, stood in stark contrast to the complexities of our situation, a brief respite in what I knew would be a relentless push for survival in Clivilius.

Paul's question, gentle and laced with concern, pierced the veil of my internal turmoil. "Everything okay?" His inquiry, simple yet laden with the offer of support, momentarily drew me out of my restless thoughts.

"Ahh, yeah," I responded, the words slipping out more as a reflex than a true reflection of my state. My hands, betraying my inner unease, moved restlessly along my thighs, a vain attempt to quell the nervous energy that seemed to have taken hold of me.

"You sure?" Paul pressed, his voice steady and sincere. "I'm here if you need to talk," he added, extending an offer of companionship and understanding that was both appreciated and daunting.

For a moment, I entertained the possibility of confiding in Paul, of unburdening the weight of fears and uncertainties that clouded my mind. Yet, the thought was quickly dismissed. He wouldn't understand, would he? The complexity of my emotions, the depth of my concerns, felt too vast, too entangled in the specifics of my past and the uncertainties of our present situation.

"I need to check on Jamie," I said instead, using the immediate concern for Jamie as a reason to withdraw. The swift motion of getting to my feet was as much about escaping the conversation as it was about tending to Jamie.

As I made my way to the tent, the dust of Clivilius clinging to my trousers went unnoticed, a trivial concern against the backdrop of our current reality. Standing outside the tent's entrance, I paused, cupping my hands over my mouth in a moment of self-comfort. The deep breaths I took were an effort to compose myself, to gather the strength and calm I needed to face not just Jamie's needs but my own internal battle.

The offer of support from Paul lingered in my mind, a reminder that, despite my feelings of isolation and the personal walls I had erected, I was not entirely alone. Yet, the decision to keep my worries to myself, to maintain a façade of strength and competence, was a path I had chosen, perhaps out of habit or perhaps out of a deep-seated fear of vulnerability.

As I prepared to enter the tent, the brief moment of solitude outside was a poignant reminder of the complexities of human interaction, especially in the face of shared adversity. The challenge of balancing personal struggles with the needs of the group, of finding moments of connection amid the vastness of our isolation, was a constant negotiation. In the end, the care for Jamie, the responsibility I held as a doctor, provided a focus, a purpose that, for the moment, allowed me to push aside my own turmoil in service of a greater need.

As I carefully unzipped the front flap and pushed my way inside the tent, the familiar low growl of Duke greeted me, an unwelcome but expected reaction. My frown was automatic. Despite my efforts to forge some kind of truce with him, Duke's loyalty to Jamie rendered him impervious to my attempts at reconciliation. His growl was a clear reminder of our unresolved tension, a barrier between me and Jamie that I had yet to overcome.

"It's okay, Duke," Jamie's voice, weak yet reassuring, broke through the tension. The sound of him patting Duke on the head was a gentle reminder of their bond, one that, despite the circumstances, I couldn't help but respect.

"Sorry," I found myself apologising, not just for disturbing the peace but for the unease my presence seemed to invariably cause. The tent was dim, the last vestiges of daylight barely penetrating the fabric, leaving us in a state of growing darkness illuminated only by the distant, flickering glow from the campfire outside. My eyes strained to adjust as I made my way carefully toward Jamie, conscious of Duke's watchful gaze on me.

"I didn't mean to wake you," I added, even as I approached Jamie's makeshift bed. The concern for disturbing his rest was genuine, a reflection of my desire to ease his discomfort in any way possible.

"I was already awake," Jamie's response, soft and devoid of any irritation, was a relief. It lifted a small part of the weight I carried, the constant worry about causing further distress to those under my care. His tone, perhaps unintentionally, offered a bridge over the gap Duke's distrust had created between us.

"Ahh, shit," escaped my lips, quieter than a breath, as I crouched beside the medical supplies I had carefully organised earlier. The realisation that some of our precious stock had been compromised was a blow not just to our practical resources but to the sense of control I was striving to maintain in this chaotic environment.

"What is it?" Jamie's voice, laced with concern, broke through my dismay. Despite his own pain, his immediate response was to inquire, to offer support.

Continuing to squint in the dim light that barely filled the tent, I let out a heavy sigh, the weight of frustration and disappointment pressing down on me. "Several of the gauze dressings have been torn to shreds. And one of the bandages is missing." The words felt like an admission of defeat, a testament to the challenges of safeguarding our limited supplies against all possible threats.

"Henri!" Jamie's scold was directed at Duke’s brother, the culprit of our current predicament. The naming of the dog, a moment of levity in our dire circumstances, did little to alleviate the frustration of the situation.

Gathering what I needed of the remaining intact supplies, I moved closer to Jamie, intent on making the best of what we had left. His next words, "I found your missing bandage," were almost comical in their timing, if the context hadn’t been so dire.

Watching Jamie attempt to reclaim the bandage from Henri's mouth was a surreal moment. "You may as well let him keep it," I huffed, the irritation clear in my voice. The realisation that a dog's playful moment had further depleted our already scarce medical supplies was far from amusing. "We can't use that now," I added, the pragmatism borne of necessity overriding any other consideration.

Jamie's eye roll was a silent commiseration, an acknowledgment of the absurdity and frustration of the moment.

"Take these," I instructed Jamie, my voice firm yet laced with an underlying current of concern. The urgency of the moment propelled me to act swiftly, presenting him with a bottle of water and a handful of capsules before he had the chance to settle back into a position of comfort. My actions, though abrupt, were driven by the need to address his pain and reduce the risk of infection as efficiently as possible.

"What are they?" Jamie's question came quickly, a mix of curiosity and trust as he didn't hesitate to follow my directions, swallowing the first capsule with a large gulp of water.

"There are a couple of antibiotics and then some pain and sleeping medication," I explained succinctly, watching as he consumed the remaining capsules in a similar manner. The combination of medications was carefully chosen to address both the immediate discomfort and the longer-term necessity of preventing infection.

As Jamie lay back down, I remained vigilant, observing his movements for any indication of further discomfort or adverse reactions to the medication. My role extended beyond the administration of drugs; it encompassed the continuous monitoring of his condition, a responsibility I took seriously.

"Watch the dog for me," I instructed next, shifting my focus to the task of changing his dressing. The presence of Duke, a constant by Jamie's side, required a certain level of caution and coordination. Jamie's response, drawing Duke closer with a protective arm, was a silent acknowledgment of the bond between them. Snuggling the dog into his armpit, Jamie's action spoke volumes about the comfort and security the animal provided him in a world where both were in short supply.

Preparing to change Jamie's dressing, I was acutely aware of the delicate balance of our situation. Each action taken, from the administering of medication to the simple act of caring for a wound, was imbued with deeper meanings of trust, care, and survival. In the dimly lit tent, with the quiet presence of Duke, Henri, and the steady breathing of Jamie now eased by medication, I felt a profound sense of purpose.

Carefully, I began the delicate task of removing the dirty dressings from Jamie's wound, my hands moving with practiced precision to avoid causing any unnecessary pain or disrupting the healing process. Holding the soiled gauze, I paused, my eyes instinctively scanning the interior of the tent for a sanitary bin, a habit ingrained from years of working in well-equipped medical environments. My brow furrowed in frustration as the reality of our situation hit me once again. The stark contrast between the facilities I was accustomed to and our current setup in Clivilius was jarring. The lack of basic medical infrastructure, something I had taken for granted back on Earth, was becoming an increasingly pressing issue.

The limited resources at our disposal and the absence of a designated area for medical waste underscored the challenges of providing healthcare in such a rudimentary setting. The frustration that welled up within me was more intense than I cared to acknowledge, a reminder of the compromises and improvisations that I had already made. Tomorrow, I resolved, I will talk with Paul and Luke about setting up a basic medical tent. The necessity of a dedicated space for treating injuries and managing medical supplies was clear, and the thought of organising such a space offered a small measure of comfort.

After cleaning Jamie's wound with the utmost care, I proceeded to redress it, applying fresh gauze with gentle, efficient movements. The process was familiar, yet each motion was tinged with the awareness of our constrained circumstances. As I secured the new dressings, ensuring they were snug but not too tight, I allowed myself a moment to consider the implications of setting up a medical tent. It would not only improve the safety and efficacy of the care I could provide but also symbolise a step towards establishing some semblance of normalcy within our extraordinary situation.

Jamie's eyes, heavy with the onset of the medication's effects, were a welcome sight. It was a small victory in the grand scheme of things, but it brought a sense of relief nonetheless. The smile that found its way to my face was spontaneous, a reflection of the satisfaction that came from seeing a patient—no matter how challenging—begin to find some respite from their pain.

Having finished with the immediate task of redressing Jamie's wound and ensuring he was as comfortable as possible, I gathered the medical supplies, ready to organise them in a more secure location. The decision to move them was practical, a necessary step to protect our dwindling resources from further canine interference. "I'm taking the supplies to the other tent," I announced, more out of habit than the expectation of a response. My addition, "Away from Henri," was a light attempt to inject a bit of humour into the situation, even if I wasn't sure Jamie was coherent enough to appreciate it.

As I manoeuvred through the tent flap, ready to step out into the cool evening air, Jamie's voice, soft yet clear, stopped me in my tracks. "Glenda," he called out, prompting me to pull back inside, my attention immediately refocused on him.

I turned to face him, meeting his gaze. The vulnerability in his eyes, so at odds with the tough exterior he often presented, was striking. "Thank you," he mumbled, his words simple yet laden with meaning. It was a rare moment of acknowledgment, a glimpse into the complexity of his character that went beyond the surface level.

In the few moments that followed, I watched as Jamie succumbed to sleep, his features relaxing into a peaceful expression that belied the pain and struggle of his waking hours. The sight of him, so exposed and human in his slumber, stirred a deep empathy within me. Despite his often abrasive demeanour, the reminder that even the prickliest among us harbour pain and vulnerability was poignant. Even pricks have feelings in them, somewhere, I mused to myself with a gentle smile, acknowledging the truth of the complexity of human emotion.

With one last look at Jamie, now lost in the depths of much-needed rest, I quietly left the tent.

Sitting down in the dust beside Paul, his immediate question, "How is he?" carried the weight of genuine concern for Jamie's well-being.

"Still in a lot of pain," I admitted, the words heavy on my tongue. The update I provided was factual, stripped of any sugarcoating. "I've changed the dressing on his wound and given him some more painkillers and a few sedatives. He should be out for the rest of the night." My response was clinical, yet beneath the surface, there was an undercurrent of hope that the medications would provide Jamie the relief he so desperately needed.

Paul's gratitude, "Thank you, Glenda," was sincere, yet it stirred an uneasy feeling within me. "I'm not sure we would have survived here long without you." His words, meant as a compliment, instead evoked a sense of premature celebration. It's a bit too soon to be thanking me, I thought. The stark reality of our situation, the constant threat to our survival, was never far from my mind. From what I've witnessed so far, there's still plenty of time for us to die yet.

The question that had been gnawing at the edges of my consciousness finally pushed its way to the forefront. "Is this all of you?" The courage it took to voice the inquiry was born of a need for clarity, despite the fear of what the answer might reveal.

"Yes," Paul's response was simple, a confirmation that carried its own weight of implications.

"There's been nobody else?" I pressed further, the need for understanding driving me to seek out as much information as possible.

"No," Paul replied again, his answer prompting him to question, "Were you expecting more?"

The moment of truth hung between us, heavy and significant. "Oh... um… no," I stammered, the realisation hitting me that divulging my fears and speculations would serve no purpose. If Paul didn't know anything about others before us, then sharing my tangled web of hope and fear would only add to our collective burden. The possibility that others might have been here before us, coupled with the implication that they had not survived, was a duality of hope and despair that was best left unexplored for the moment.

We lapsed into silence, the crackling of the fire the only sound in the still night. My gaze was drawn to the flames, their dance a mesmerising distraction from the whirlwind of thoughts and emotions churning within me. The fire, with its warmth and light, became a focal point for reflection, a beacon in the darkness that surrounded us. In that silence, the reality of our situation settled heavily upon me, a mix of determination and dread for what the future might hold.

"You know you can't go back," Paul's words, spoken softly, broke the silence that had settled between us. They were a stark reminder of the reality we faced, a truth that hung over us like a shadow.

"I know," I responded, the words leaving my lips with a weight that felt heavy. My father had told me that, among many other things, preparing me in his way for a journey he was uncertain that I would ever have to take. My brief acknowledgment of Paul's statement sent us spiralling back into a contemplative silence, each lost in our thoughts.

Sitting there, staring into the fire, memories of my childhood washed over me. I had grown up on stories of Clivilius, tales told by my father that painted this world in strokes of adventure and mystery. As a young girl, those stories fuelled my imagination, igniting a hope that one day I might see this place for myself, to experience its wonders first-hand. My father's narratives had made Clivilius sound incredible, a realm of endless possibilities and undiscovered secrets.

But now, confronted with the reality of Clivilius, the wonder and excitement that once filled those childhood dreams had evaporated, leaving behind a longing for the familiar, for home. The harshness of our situation, the struggle for survival in an alien world, bore little resemblance to the enchanting tales I had once believed in. The stark contrast between my childhood fantasies and the present reality was jarring.

As I sat beside Paul, the warmth of the fire doing little to chase away the chill of realisation, I couldn't help but wish for an escape from this reality. The thought that I might just wake up from this, to find it all a dream, was a fleeting comfort. Yet deep down, I knew the truth. This was no dream; it was the life I was now bound to, a life filled with challenges and uncertainties.

Seeking to shift the tide of my thoughts from the paths of nostalgia and regret, I turned the conversation towards the events that had unfolded before my arrival. "So, what did happen last night?"

Paul's recounting of the previous night's ordeal—a fierce dust storm and an encompassing darkness that seemed almost sentient in its intensity—left me gasping. The visual he painted of their struggle against the elements and the subsequent injury that Jamie suffered was a testament to the unpredictable and perilous nature of Clivilius. "And that was how Jamie got burnt," Paul concluded, his words a sombre coda to the tale of survival against formidable odds.

The casual conclusion to such a harrowing tale seemed almost surreal, and I found myself searching the night sky for some semblance of normalcy, a distraction from the harsh reality Paul had just described. 

"It's very dark. There is no moon, or stars here?" My question was more than just an inquiry about the celestial landscape; it was a search for a glimmer of familiarity in an environment that felt increasingly foreign.

"I don't think so," Paul's reply came, tinged with the same uncertainty that had been shadowing my thoughts. "Or at least, we didn't see anything last night." His words confirmed the unsettling notion that Clivilius lacked the comforting presence of celestial bodies we had taken for granted on Earth.

"Oh," I murmured, my gaze drifting back to the fire, the only source of light in the enveloping darkness. The realisation brought a new layer of concern to my already troubled mind. "I see." The simplicity of my response belied the turmoil of thoughts racing through my head, the implications of our situation becoming ever more daunting.

"Glenda," Paul's voice, soft yet filled with a resolve that caught my attention, prompted me to meet his gaze.

"Yes, Paul?" I answered, sensing the gravity of what he was about to say.

"The dark can be a scary place here. I'm going to keep the fire going all night." His declaration was a testament to his understanding of the psychological comfort that light provided in the face of the unknown, a beacon of hope and a measure of protection against the intangible fears that darkness brought.

"Do you feel safe here?" My question was more than a query about our physical safety; it was an exploration of his emotional and psychological state in this new world.

Paul's hesitation spoke volumes before he even replied. "Nothing about this place seems particularly safe," his honesty was a reflection of our shared vulnerability. "But I think having the light is the best thing for us, to hopefully avoid a repetition of last night's fiasco." His pragmatic approach, focusing on the light as a means of safeguarding against the dangers both seen and unseen, offered a sliver of comfort.

The uncomfortable shift in the dust under me was a physical manifestation of the unease churning within. The unpredictability of our new world, with its unseen dangers and unanticipated challenges, weighed heavily on my mind. The thought of another dust storm, or worse, the unknown force that had claimed my father and decimated what was once a thriving city in Clivilius, filled me with a sense of urgency. "I think we should build some security for our small settlement. And soon," I found myself asserting, more out of a need to feel some semblance of control than anything else.

Paul's cautious gaze met my suggestion with a measured response. "I'll have a chat to Luke about it tomorrow," he promised.

Pleased with his agreement, I acknowledged his response with a nod. My mind was already racing with the logistics of setting up a medical tent that could adequately serve our needs—a task that promised to occupy much of my time and energy in the coming days.

"You'll take the first watch then," I stated more than asked, as I rose to my feet, brushing off the dust that clung to my slacks. The idea of a watch system had formed almost instinctively, a basic measure of security against the unknowns that lurked in the darkness beyond our firelit circle.

"First watch?" Paul's question, marked by a hint of surprise, underscored the novelty of the concept in our current situation.

"Well, you can't very well sit there awake all night," I reasoned. The practicality of sharing the responsibility for keeping watch, for ensuring our collective safety, seemed obvious. "I'll switch with you when I check on Jamie during the night." My words were an attempt to formalise our arrangement, to establish a routine that could offer us some measure of security.

"Sure," Paul agreed, his attention drifting back to the fire.

As I made my way towards the supply tent, a sudden curiosity prompted me to turn back. "Oh, and Paul?" I called out, an afterthought striking me as both poignant and necessary.

"Yeah," he responded, his voice carrying across the short distance to where I stood.

"Does our little settlement have a name yet?" The question felt important, a way to solidify our presence in this dusty landscape, to claim a piece of it as our own.

Paul's smile, though I could not see it, was evident in his voice. "Bixbus," he announced, a choice that sparked a flicker of amusement amidst the gravity of our conversation.

"Hmm. Odd name," I mused aloud, the uniqueness of the moniker lingering in my thoughts as I turned and entered the tent. The naming of our settlement, however unconventional, was a small but significant act of defiance against the uncertainty and danger that surrounded us. It was a declaration of our intent to survive, to build something lasting—a symbol of hope and resilience that, despite everything, we were here to stay.

Standing just within the shelter of the tent, the transition from the outside's relative brightness to the tent's dim interior required a brief pause. My eyes gradually adapted to the muted illumination, a faint glow that seeped in, painting soft shadows across the sparse interior. The light from the campfire outside cast a comforting, if not entirely sufficient, radiance that allowed me to navigate the space.

The tent, despite being designed to accommodate ten people, felt cavernously empty with just the bags of groceries and additional medical supplies I had brought in. This stark emptiness lent the space an air of vastness that was both impressive and slightly disconcerting. The realisation that this tent was now my temporary home, my medical base, underscored the drastic change my life had undergone in the last twelve hours.

Caught up in the practicalities of setting up the tent and ensuring Jamie's well-being, I hadn't fully considered my own basic needs until that moment. The act of unbuttoning my shirt, a prelude to settling in for the night, was halted by the sudden awareness that I lacked bed clothes, or any change of clothes for that matter. The reality of our situation, stripped down to survival essentials, hit me anew as I hastily redid the buttons. The absence of such basic comforts was a stark reminder of the abruptness with which we we been thrust into this new existence.

The air inside the tent, warm and filled with the fine dust of Clivilius, carried with it the alien planet's signature. Moving towards the back corner, I retrieved the single folded blanket. Laying it out on the floor of the tent's right wing, I took a moment to smooth out the uneven surface beneath. The act of preparing my makeshift bed was meditative, a moment of normalcy in an otherwise unrecognisable world.

As I pressed the lumps of dust flat with my palms, the texture of the ground beneath the tent's floor was a tangible connection to Clivilius. Each movement, each adjustment of the blanket, was a silent assertion of my determination to adapt, to make this place as hospitable as possible under the circumstances.

Settling into the blanket, the emotions I had been holding at bay surged forward, threatening to overwhelm me. The longing for home, for Pierre, and for Lois, our loyal golden retriever who was a constant, comforting presence in our lives, washed over me with an intensity that took my breath away. The absence of their warmth, the silence where their laughter and soft whimpers should have been, carved a hollow space within me that seemed impossible to fill.

In this landscape, so far removed from everything familiar and dear, I found myself fighting for a semblance of the routine that had anchored my days back on Earth. Kneeling on the blanket, I sought to ground myself in a practice that had always brought me solace. Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath, willing the turmoil within to ebb, to give way to a moment of peace.

"I'm grateful for my life," the words left my lips in a whisper, a soft affirmation in the enveloping darkness of the tent. Acknowledging gratitude, even in the most dire of circumstances, had always been a way to centre myself, to find a path through the darkness. "I'm grateful for the air. I'm grateful for the kindness of Paul." Each statement of gratitude was a lifeline, a reminder of the good that could still be found, even here, even now.

But as I continued, the effort to focus, to truly feel the gratitude, was immense. The usual comfort and clarity this ritual provided were obscured by the pain of my current reality. Recalling the day my mother informed me of my father's disappearance, a memory steeped in loss and uncertainty, I realised that tonight's struggle was even more profound. The weight of not just personal loss, but the displacement from my world to Clivilius, bore down on me with crushing force.

Swallowing hard against the tide of emotion, I forced myself to continue, to find one more thing to be grateful for in this unfamiliar world.

"I'm grateful for Clivilius."