As the tent began to materialise before us, a wave of relief washed over me, though it did little to alleviate the physical toll of carrying Joel. My arms ached with a deep, throbbing fatigue, and my calves screamed in protest against the unrelenting weight of his limp body.

"Put him on the mattress," Jamie directed, his voice firm, cutting through the stillness of the air as we approached the camp.

"I don't think that's a good idea. We only have one. He could be infected," Glenda countered, her tone laced with caution.

At Jamie's sudden stop, the weight of Joel shifted, sending a sharp jolt through my already overburdened shoulder. I gritted my teeth against the pain, struggling to maintain my grip.

"Bit late to say that now," Jamie retorted sharply, his frustration palpable. "If Joel's infected, then we likely are too." His words, though harsh, carried an undeniable truth, echoing the direness of our predicament.

A tight grimace formed on Glenda's face, her internal conflict momentarily breaking through her composed exterior.

"Jamie's right," I found myself saying, my voice steady despite the turmoil swirling within me. "We may as well." The resignation in my own words was a bitter pill to swallow, acknowledging the risk we were all sharing in this moment of crisis.

"Okay," Glenda conceded, her professionalism overriding her initial reservations. She moved swiftly to hold the tent flap open, allowing us to pass.

Inside the tent, the atmosphere was thick with tension and unspoken fears. Kain quickly stepped aside, stripping the blankets from the mattress in a flurry of motion, clearing a space for Joel. Together, Jamie and I gently lowered Joel onto the mattress, his body a heavy, lifeless mass that contrasted sharply with the softness beneath him.

The act of laying Joel down felt like a pronounced acknowledgment of the uncertainty and danger that lay ahead. Each of us, in our own way, grappled with the confusion of Joel's condition and the shadow it cast over the camp.

Standing back, I watched Joel with an intensity born of a mix of hope and disbelief. The subtle rise and fall of his chest were the only indicators of the fragile thread of life that still tethered him to this world. Though his lips remained silent, his eyes—a striking blue that mirrored Jamie's so closely—gazed vacantly upwards, as if trying to pierce the canvas of the tent and decipher the mysteries of the skies beyond.

I couldn't help but smile softly, noting the familial resemblance in those eyes. It was a small, poignant reminder of the connection between father and son, visible even through the veil of trauma and uncertainty that hung over us.

Glenda, with her practiced calm, knelt beside Joel, her examination thorough and methodical. Her fingers and eyes worked in tandem, tracing the contours of his injuries, seeking clues in the map of wounds and bruises that marred his body.

My gaze shifted to Jamie, standing a short distance away, yet seemingly in another world entirely. His attention was riveted on Joel, his son, with a focus so intense it was as if his will alone could mend the brokenness before him. His hands, normally so steady, betrayed his inner turmoil, fidgeting restlessly as he watched Glenda's every move.

When Glenda finally broke the silence, her voice was laced with a professional detachment that belied the gravity of her words. "Both carotid arteries seem to have healed, assuming they were ever severed." Her analysis was a beacon of clinical objectivity in the emotional storm. "Aside from the obvious slice across his throat and what I'd assume are bumps and bruises from his time in the river, he doesn't appear to have any other major physical wounds." Her conclusions, while offering a glimmer of hope, also deepened the mystery. "I'm not sure how he could have lost all of his blood if not through major artery damage.”

Her words hung in the air, a complex tapestry of medical jargon and raw, human concern. The implications were as clear as they were confounding, presenting a puzzle that seemed to defy the very laws of nature and medicine we relied on.

As I processed Glenda's analysis, a mix of relief and perplexity churned within me. Relief that Joel's condition was not as dire as we had feared, but perplexity at the enigma his survival presented. How could someone endure such trauma, lose so much blood, and yet cling to life with such tenacity? The answer eluded me, hovering just beyond the reach of my understanding, adding another layer of uncertainty to the already tumultuous sea of emotions swirling within the confines of that small tent.

"His throat was definitely slit. There was a lot of blood," I confirmed, forgetting until after I had spoken that I was supposed to be pretending to know nothing.

"It's not making much sense," Glenda's voice cut through the mounting pressure, her professional detachment providing a brief respite from the emotional turmoil. Yet, her words only served to underscore the perplexity of the situation, adding layers to the enigma that enveloped Joel's condition.

Jamie's focus on me intensified, his gaze piercing. “What do you mean you know his throat was slit? And how the fuck would you know how much blood there was?” Jamie almost spat the words in my direction.

With my façade of ignorance crumbling, I seized the opportunity to delve deeper into the mystery surrounding Joel's circumstances. "No signs of any defensive wounds?" I inquired, directing my question to Glenda, hoping her medical expertise might shed light on the events that had led to Joel's current state.

"No, none," Glenda responded, her head shaking in a mix of confusion and concern. "Were you expecting there to be?"  Her gaze lifted to meet mine, her eyes searching, perhaps trying to piece together the puzzle of my sudden interest in the specifics of Joel's injuries.

I shook my head slowly in response to her questioning look, my mind racing to construct a plausible explanation for my query. "Not necessarily," I murmured, my voice a blend of contemplation and feigned uncertainty. "I guess that means whatever happened to him, it happened quickly and likely took him by surprise.”

The words hung in the tense space between us, a speculative theory attempting to bridge the gaps in our understanding. Yet, the absence of defensive wounds raised more questions than it answered, deepening the mystery of how Joel had come to be in such a dire state without any apparent struggle.

Jamie's glare intensified, his impatience tangible in the tense atmosphere of the tent. "Well? You haven't answered my question," he demanded, his voice thick with anger and suspicion.

I exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of every eye in the tent on me. There was no retreating into the shadows of half-truths now. "Joel was the driver that delivered the tents back home," I admitted, my voice steady despite the storm of emotions churning inside me.

The revelation was met with a chorus of surprised gasps, the sound echoing off the tent's canvas walls, amplifying the weight of my confession. But there was no turning back; the truth was unravelling, thread by thread.

"I was surprised to see him. I didn't recognise him at first. Not until I saw his name sewn into his shirt." My gaze drifted to the small, worn fabric of Joel's shirt, where his identity was quietly stitched.

Glenda, her movements deliberate, tugged gently at a small tear in the upper left of Joel's polo shirt, revealing the embroidered name. "Joel," she read aloud, her voice a soft echo in the charged silence.

I gathered a breath, the next part of the story pressing against my lips. "Henri and Duke coming here was all an accident," I explained, the words spilling out in a rush to fill the void of confusion and doubt. "Joel accidentally let Henri outside, and he ran through the Portal when we tried to catch him. I forgot I was still carrying Duke when I followed after Henri.”

The tent was still, the collective breath of its occupants held in suspense as the pieces of the story fell into place, each one a fragment of the larger, bewildering puzzle.

"And Joel saw all this?" Glenda's voice broke the silence, her question cautious yet probing.

"Yes," I confirmed, my voice a mere whisper against the solemnity of my admission. "And when I returned, I found him lying in a pool of blood in the back of the truck.”

The admission hung heavy in the air, a stark and unsettling image that left an unspoken question lingering among us: What had transpired in those lost moments, in the gap between the ordinary and the unimaginable?

Kain's soft utterance, "Holy shit," reverberated like a whisper against the storm of emotions brewing within the tent.

Jamie's confusion and anger were palpable, his words sharp as he sought clarity. "But that was yesterday," he pointed out, the timeline exacerbating his distress. "Why didn't you tell me?"

The question hit me like a physical blow, my guilt and fear congealing into a heavy lump in my throat. "I thought you'd blame me for it," I confessed, my voice barely above a whisper, revealing the turmoil of guilt and fear roiling within me.

"I do fucking blame you for it!" Jamie's accusation was a gut punch, his anger justified, piercing the already tense atmosphere.

"Boys!" Glenda's voice, firm and authoritative, cut through the escalating conflict, yet her intervention was only a brief respite.

Jamie's next words were laced with scorn and disbelief, "And then you brought him here and dumped his body in the fucking river! That's some seriously fucked up shit!" His voice rose, a crescendo of frustration and accusation.

"It wasn't me!" I countered, my own voice rising in a desperate shout. The very notion of such an act was abhorrent to me, "I would never do something so terrible!"

“Boys! Stop it!” Glenda's command was louder this time, her insistence on civility a sharp demand in the charged atmosphere. Her call for order ushered in a heavy silence, a suffocating quiet that enveloped us all.

Finally, Jamie's voice pierced the silence, a softer, more controlled tone that belied the undercurrent of his turmoil. "Well, what did you do with the body?" he inquired, his question hanging in the air, heavy with implications.

"We buried him," I responded, the lie slipping out almost reflexively, a misguided attempt to provide some semblance of closure.

"We?" Glenda's single word was a spotlight on my deception, her inquiry sharp and incisive.

Caught in my own web of lies, I inwardly cursed my clumsy attempt at deceit. The pressure of the moment, the weight of their gazes, coaxed a partial truth from my lips. "Beatrix, Gladys and I," I said, my admission a tangled mix of truth and fabrication. While we hadn't buried him, acknowledging their presence at the scene was a small concession to my conscience, a feeble attempt to anchor myself to some fragment of honesty amidst the blended chaos of lies and half-truths.

"This is insane," Kain muttered, burying his head in his hands.

Glenda's interjection brought a semblance of focus back to the immediate issue at hand, despite the overarching mystery of Joel's condition. "I really don't understand any of this at all," she admitted, voicing the confusion that plagued each of us. "But I can do some basic surgery and stitch his throat back up. I can't guarantee anything. He might be breathing and have his eyes open, but that doesn't mean that he is actually alive. He hasn't spoken and isn't responding to any of my stimuli."

"So, what does that mean? What's happening to him?" Jamie asked.

Glenda's response, although steeped in her medical expertise, was tinged with a rare hint of helplessness. "I really don't know," she said, a simple admission that somehow carried the weight of our shared fear and confusion.

Feeling the dynamics of the room and the intensity of the situation shift slightly, I found myself stepping back, physically distancing myself from the heart of the turmoil. The air in the tent felt thick, charged with a mix of hope, desperation, and the heavy burden of the unknown. My retreat was not just a step back but a withdrawal, a moment to breathe and recalibrate.

Jamie's readiness to assist Glenda, his immediate shift to practicality in the face of the unknown, was a testament to his character. His ability to focus on the 'next step' in a situation so fraught with emotional and existential turmoil was both admirable and heart-wrenching.

As Glenda began to list her needs for the surgery, her voice became the backdrop to my own inner turmoil. Thoughts of the Portal, my planned escape route, loomed large in my mind. I let her voice fade into the background as I stepped out of the tent, the cool air a welcoming refreshment to the stifling atmosphere inside.

With my head bowed, not in defeat but in a desperate search for clarity, I started my walk toward the Portal. Each step was heavy, laden with the guilt of the lies I had spun and the overwhelming complexity of the situation we were all entangled in.

Paul's call halted my determined stride, anchoring me back to the moment with the urgency in his voice. "Luke, wait," he implored. "Where are you going?"

The simplicity of the question belied the complexity of my intended journey. "I have to find Cody," I answered, my voice steady but my mind racing with the implications of what that entailed.

Paul, his curiosity piqued, quickened his pace to align with mine. "Who's Cody?" he inquired, a hint of confusion lacing his words.

I halted, the weight of the secret I was about to share pressing down on me. Turning to face Paul, I scanned our surroundings, a surge of paranoia washing over me as I ensured our privacy. Leaning in, I whispered, the word barely escaping my lips, "He's a Guardian."

Paul's reaction was immediate, a sharp intake of breath marking his shock. "What the hell is a Guardian?" His question, so loaded with implications, hung between us, a testament to the vast gulf of secrets that had lain undiscovered between us.

"Like me," I confessed, the words feeling both liberating and burdensome as they broke the barrier of silence.

Paul's attempt to articulate his confusion was palpable, his words stumbling over one another. "What... how...?" His expression, a mixture of bewilderment and dawning realisation.

I shook my head, a gesture of both frustration and resignation. "I don't completely understand yet myself," I admitted, laying bare the truth of my own uncertainty and confusion.

In Paul's eyes, a spark of something new flickered to life—hope. "But there are more of you?" he asked, the question imbued with a newfound sense of wonder and a hint of relief, as if the revelation of my not being alone in my guardianship offered a glimmer of light in the enveloping darkness of our situation.

Standing there, with the weight of revelation hanging between us, I felt a shift in the fabric of our brotherhood. Secrets once buried were now surfacing, altering the landscape of our relationship and the journey ahead, as we stood on the brink of a new, uncertain horizon.

"Yes," I affirmed to Paul. "But don't tell the others yet. Not until we know it's safe."

"Safe?" Paul echoed, his brow furrowed in confusion, trying to piece together the fragmented truth I'd thrust upon him.

I hesitated, the weight of the secret I bore pressing heavily upon my shoulders. "I still don't know who killed..." My voice trailed off, the harsh reality of the words too blunt, too final. I corrected myself, "Who slit Joel's throat." The admission was a bitter pill, laden with implications that spread far beyond the immediate concern for Joel's well-being.

"Cody thinks whoever did it may have thought that Joel was me," I continued, sharing the harrowing possibility that the attack on Joel might have been intended for me—a mistaken identity with fatal consequences.

"Shit, Luke," Paul gasped, the implications dawning on him, the potential danger I was in becoming palpably clear.

"I need answers," I stated, urgency propelling my feet forward once more, the need to unravel the mystery driving me onward.

Paul's question followed me, a poignant reminder of the human cost of this enigmatic conflict. "Does that mean Joel is really dead?" His voice was laced with a mix of fear and confusion, struggling to keep pace with me and the rapidly unfolding events.

Approaching the Portal, I focused my thoughts, Berriedale home, study, I directed with the precision of a practiced Guardian. The Portal responded, its screen alight with vibrant, swirling energies, a gateway to another place, another chance to piece together the puzzle. Berriedale home, study, the voice of Clivilius echoed, its voice a unified mimicry of my command.

"Luke," Paul's voice anchored me once more to the present, a final plea before I embarked on my uncertain journey. His words, imbued with concern and a brotherly bond, halted my advance.

I turned to face him, the imminent transition to Earth momentarily paused. His expression, a mix of worry and resolve, was a silent testament to the stakes of the venture I was about to undertake.

"Don't get yourself killed, okay? We still need you," he said, his words a simple yet profound reminder of the interconnected threads of our lives, of the roles we play in each other's stories.

A gentle smile crossed my lips, a silent acknowledgment of the bond we shared, the unspoken commitment to return. "I'll do my best," I promised, a vow made amidst the uncertainty of what lay ahead.

With that, I stepped into the Portal, the colours enveloping me in a cascade of light and energy, the world behind me fading as I moved forward to seek the truths that awaited. The Portal closed behind me, sealing off the path I'd taken, leaving Paul and the others in a reality fraught with questions and shadows, as I ventured to unearth answers that could alter the course of our intertwined destinies.