The moment I stepped into the laundry room, it felt like I was on a mission, albeit a domestic one fraught with its own brand of urgency. I reached into the cupboard, my fingers closing around the rolls of toilet paper with a sense of purpose. Each roll seemed to whisper of the plans ahead, their mundane existence about to be enlisted for something far from ordinary.

As I turned back to the kitchen, Duke's eager form leapt towards me, his eyes shimmering with the boundless hope of a new toy. "They’re not for you," I informed him, my voice laced with amusement and a mild reproach. The disappointment that flickered across his face was almost human, but my next words seemed to reignite his enthusiasm. "Come and help me find the shovel."

Understanding or not, Duke's reaction was instantaneous. With the boundless energy only a dog possesses, he raced ahead, his paws thudding against the floor with a determination that was both comical and admirable. The clatter of his passage through the dog door served as a reminder of his unwavering readiness to follow wherever adventure—or I—led.

Lagging behind, I made my way up the hallway, the sounds of Duke's eager exploration a beacon pulling me forward. "You coming, Henri?" My voice echoed down the hall, more a courtesy than an expectation. Henri, ever the embodiment of indifference, barely acknowledged the invitation, his eyes slit open in a lazy appraisal before dismissing the prospect entirely. I guess that's a no, I mused, the corners of my mouth twitching into a snigger at the predictable response.

Stepping outside, the contrast was stark. The house's interior, with its comforting warmth, gave way to the unkempt wilderness of our backyard. Duke, now my steadfast companion in this venture, trotted beside me, his presence a comforting constant. The long, weedy grass whispered around our legs as we made our way to the small, neglected shed tucked away in the yard's back corner.

Approaching the shed always filled me with a sense of foreboding, the anticipation of encountering its eight-legged inhabitants enough to quicken my heartbeat. Despite the bravery I projected, my inner fears bubbled to the surface. Spiders, with their silent, lurking presence, had always been my Achilles' heel. The knowledge that they were probably watching from their shadowy corners, waiting, sent a shiver down my spine.

The door to the shed groaned a loud, unwelcoming creak as I nudged it open, a sound that seemed to echo into the quiet around us. Unlike Duke, whose adventurous spirit had him darting inside without a second thought, my approach was more cautious, tinged with a healthy dose of apprehension. My eyes scanned the doorframe meticulously, half-expecting some eight-legged fiend to launch itself at me in greeting. Only when I was convinced of my immediate safety did I step forward, my body involuntarily shrinking down as if to make myself a less appealing target to any unseen arachnid assailants.

Inside, the shed was a realm of shadows and dust, the scant light filtering through a small, grimy window serving as the only beacon in the gloom. The absence of electricity in this small outpost of Jamie’s yet-to-be-completed projects lent an air of neglect, the dimness a constant reminder of tasks left unfinished.

As my eyes adjusted, the shapes within began to take on form and substance. There, against a backdrop of metal shelving laden with the detritus of forgotten endeavours, stood the shovel. Its handle, worn from use, promised solidity and purpose. Beside it, the pickaxe and pitchfork loomed like silent sentinels, their presence both reassuring and a reminder of the myriad tasks that lay ahead.

For a moment, I contemplated the logistics of transporting the shovel along with its metallic brethren back to the house. The image of the toilet paper rolls, innocuously perched on the kitchen bench, flickered through my mind, grounding my thoughts. Realising the folly of attempting to juggle such an armful, I decided against it. "The shovel will have to do for now," I muttered to myself, the decision echoing slightly in the enclosed space. There would be time enough to plunder the shed's depths on another day.

Leaving Duke to his olfactory explorations, I retraced my steps, feeling the weight of the shovel in my grasp as a tangible link to the task at hand. Once inside, the familiar sight of the toilet paper rolls brought a momentary smile to my face, their mundane nature belying the adventure they were about to embark upon.

Back in the study, a space so often filled with the mundane tasks of daily life, I prepared myself for the transition. The Portal, now activated with a gesture that had become second nature, awaited. Clutching the toilet rolls in one hand and the shovel in the other, I stepped through, the familiar rush of crossing thresholds enveloping me.

As I emerged into the world of Clivilius, the contrast was immediate and striking. Here, in this brave new world, the ordinary objects I carried were to become tools of untold potential, their very mundanity a disguise for the extraordinary roles they were to play. The weight of the shovel in my hand felt lighter, buoyed by the possibilities that lay ahead, and the toilet rolls, so prosaic back home, seemed to quiver with the promise of adventures yet to be written.

As I stepped into the Clivilian sunlight, the quietness of the air struck me—an eerie contrast to the usual welcoming committee of Paul and Jamie. The absence of their familiar banter left a noticeable void, hinting at their preoccupation down by the river, no doubt engrossed in the task of erecting the tent.

Dragging the shovel behind me, I made my way across the landscape, its distinctive Clivilius dust kicking up with each step. The trail left by the shovel in the soft earth seemed almost symbolic, a reminder of the mark we were beginning to leave on this untouched world. Every now and then, I couldn't resist looking back at the path I'd carved, a tangible connection between our efforts and this alien land.

Paul's voice, carrying across the remaining distance, broke through my reverie. "Finally!" His figure approached rapidly, a blend of relief and excitement in his stride.

"I wasn't gone that long," I replied, handing the items over only to have them eagerly grabbed from my hands.

"You were gone long enough," said Jamie, directing my gaze towards the now almost fully constructed tent that stood by the riverside.

"You've made great progress. You'll have it finished in no time," I replied cheerfully. "I'll come and have a closer look at it later, but right now I reckon I'd better go find Paul some clothes," I said, waving a hand in the direction of Paul's bare chest. I had meant to bring some clothes with the toilet roll and shovel, but that was before I had been interrupted by Gladys.

The walk back to the Portal was contemplative, the deep trail left by the shovel marking my passage. The necessity of devising a more efficient method for transporting supplies became increasingly clear. The limitations of physical carriage were apparent, and the need for a solution urgent. As I retraced my steps, the conviction grew stronger—there had to be another way to streamline our efforts, ensuring the sustainability of our presence in Clivilius. The solitude of the return journey, punctuated only by the occasional glance at the path behind, offered a quiet moment to ponder the possibilities of innovation and adaptation in this new world.

I wrapped my fingers tightly around the black handle of Paul's travel bag as I dragged it through the house from where it had been left earlier in the day. "I guess I'd better pack Jamie a suitcase too," I muttered softly to myself, the thought only just popping into my mind.

Retrieving the largest suitcase from the top shelf of the built-in wardrobe, I dropped it onto the bed and threw it open.

The retrieval of the largest suitcase from its lofty perch atop the built-in wardrobe was a task tinged with a sense of solemnity. As it landed with a soft thud on the bed, its cavernous interior gaped open, a void waiting to be filled with pieces of Jamie's life. The moment Duke's nose appeared at the edge, curiosity alight in his eyes, my heart sank a little. "Duke, don't. Oh for God's sake, get out!" My admonishment was half-hearted, tinged with the affection born of shared history and mutual comfort in times of change.

Each item I selected and placed into the suitcase—Jamie's sneakers, an assortment of t-shirts, shorts, trousers, a warm jumper, and the essentials of socks and undies—felt like a tangible detachment of him from our shared existence. Duke's persistent sniffing, a desperate attempt to understand through scent what his heart could not, was a poignant reminder of the bonds being stretched and tested by our new reality. Packing Jamie's belongings, the physical act of sifting through the material evidence of his presence in our lives, brought a sharp sting of guilt. The realisation hit hard—Jamie's departure marked an end to the chapter of our lives that had unfolded within these walls.

"I'm sorry, Duke," I told him softly, scratching him behind the ears as I wiped away a tear with my free hand. "I know you're going to miss him." The suitcase lid fell softly closed and I leaned on it and zipped it shut. Job done.

The study door clicked softly behind me, a barrier to keep Duke from witnessing the next phase of this journey. Activating the Portal, I stood for a moment, bags in hand, caught up in the mesmerising dance of colours that swirled before me. This gateway, once a phenomenon, was becoming a familiar part of my life, yet it retained its ability to awe. "You've got this, Luke," I whispered to myself, a mantra to bolster courage for the steps I was about to take. With a deep breath, I stepped forward, the bags trailing behind me, entering once more into the land that had become our new frontier.

Each step through the fine, powdery sand felt heavier than the last, the bags dragging behind me like anchors tethered to another world. As the tent came into view, a surge of pride washed over me. "The tent looks amazing!" I couldn't help but exclaim, my voice carrying over the gentle hum of the Clivilian breeze. The sight of Paul and Jamie’s makeshift home, standing resilient against the backdrop of an otherworldly landscape, sparked a flicker of hope within me. "Is it finished now?"

"Pretty much," Jamie responded, his tone casual yet infused with a hint of pride. He stepped forward, the muscles in his arms flexing under the strain as he reached out and effortlessly took his suitcase from my grasp. Paul, in a similar motion, claimed his own travel bag.

"Duke misses you," I ventured, locking eyes with Jamie for a fleeting moment. The weight of the unspoken words between us seemed to pull my gaze downward, towards the alien dust that now dusted my shoes. "He knew as soon as I got the suitcase out that you were going away."

Jamie's reaction was subtle, yet profound. His shoulders, previously squared, visibly drooped as if the gravity of this distant world grew heavier with the mention of Duke’s name. "I miss him too," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, laden with a mixture of regret and longing.

The silence that followed was thick, charged with the unsaid, until Paul broke the spell. "Take these back with you," he said, his tone authoritative yet not unkind, as he pushed several black garbage bags in my direction.

I eyed the bags skeptically. "I don't think the bin will fit both of those."

"I'm sure you'll think of something," Paul encouraged, his voice imbued with a confidence that was both reassuring and daunting. "We've also made a small pile of cardboard and stuff we can burn, over there," he added, nodding towards a spot just off to the right of the tent.

I couldn't help but smile at Paul's words, a spontaneous reaction to the familiar optimism that characterised my brother's outlook on life. Even here, millions of miles from home, on a planet whose very air was alien to our lungs, Paul's spirit remained unbroken. His ability to see the light in the darkest of situations was not just a trait; it would, not doubt, be a lifeline.

Not expecting that they would fit, but figuring it was worth a shot anyway, I hoisted the garbage bags over my shoulder and trudged out the front door. The wheelie bins sat unassumingly underneath the kitchen window, basking in the indifferent light of our distant sun. Setting the bags down with a dull thud, I wrestled with the bin's lid, lifting it to reveal a cavity that seemed all too reluctant to welcome more.

"At least one of them should fit," I murmured to myself, a mix of hope and resignation fuelling my actions. I heaved the smallest bag atop the accumulated detritus, pushing down with all my might, willing it to conform to the limited space. The bag acquiesced, albeit grudgingly, squishing beneath my exertion. The lid, however, rebelled, refusing to close completely. A small victory, perhaps, but the bag was in. I stepped back, a sigh escaping me, the physical manifestation of my frustration and the release of effort.

"Crap," the word slipped out, a sudden realisation dawning on me. The collection was still a week away. A week! The absurdity of it all momentarily held me captive. Here we were, on the edge of human exploration, and I was beholden to the terrestrial cycle of waste collection. Maybe we'd have to leave the rubbish in Clivilius after all—a thought both pragmatically disappointing and oddly amusing.

With a reluctance that felt heavier than the bag itself, I hauled the second, decidedly larger bag back inside the house. Its presence was an unwelcome reminder of our terrestrial ties, a symbol of the mundane amidst the marvels of the universe. I tossed it into the far corner of the back bedroom, where it landed with a finality that echoed my resignation. "It's not ideal, but it will do for now," I conceded silently, the words echoing in the empty room as I pulled the door shut with a sense of finality. 

Before embarking on my return to Clivilius, I gathered a few remnants of my past life—old textbooks that whispered of days spent in pursuit of knowledge now eclipsed by the reality of our journey. The candles, scattered sentinels of light in various corners of the house, joined the collection, along with a fire lighter. Each item, mundane in isolation, became a totem of human resilience and ingenuity in the context of our colonisation mission. They were small beacons of familiarity and comfort, ready to pierce the veil of the unknown that awaited us.

The moment I stepped back through the Portal, the familiar yet always disconcerting sensation of traversing dimensions enveloped me. It's like every molecule in your body is stretched across the universe and then snapped back together, all in the blink of an eye. Despite the countless times I've made the journey, that initial rush of panic never quite fades—the fear that maybe, just this once, something won't go right.

As I approached our makeshift riverside encampment, nestled on the banks of Clivilius' whispering waters, my heart began to race with a different kind of anxiety. The camp, usually bustling with the low hum of activity, seemed eerily still.

"Where's Paul?" The words tumbled out of me, laced with a worry I couldn't mask. My gaze darted around the camp, half-expecting to find some sign of distress, some clue to an unspoken disaster.

Jamie's expression shifted from surprise to amusement at my sudden concern. "Gone to bury his shit," he said, his tone light, almost teasing.

"Oh." The relief was immediate, palpable, yet it left a residue of embarrassment. How quickly my mind had leapt to the worst conclusions.

"What's got you in such a flurry?" Jamie's question, simple yet probing, felt like an invitation to explain my unfounded panic.

"Nothing. I just had a moment and thought maybe something had happened to him." My words felt inadequate, failing to convey the depth of my sudden fear.

Jamie's response was unexpected, a pout forming on his lips. "He might not be my favourite person, but I certainly wouldn't hurt him." There was a defensiveness in his tone that caught me off guard, a sharpness that seemed out of place in our conversation.

"I wasn't suggesting you would," I replied, my words slow, measured. I was taken aback by his defensiveness, by the implication that my concern could be interpreted as an accusation. It was a jarring reminder of the tensions that simmered beneath the surface, tensions that the stress of our situation could exacerbate at any moment.

The air was thick with the unmistakable scent of adventure and the undercurrent of tension that always seemed to accompany Jamie and me whenever we found ourselves on the brink of a disagreement. This time, however, the source of our banter was absurdly trivial—a shiny, bright green thong, its colour as vibrant and out of place in our rugged encampment as a neon sign in a monastery.

"Really?" Jamie's incredulity pulled me back from the edge of my musings, his voice laced with a mix of amusement and disbelief as he dangled the offending garment between us.

I couldn't help but chuckle. "I thought you liked it?" I offered, my tone dripping with feigned innocence. I was fully aware of Jamie's disdain for such flamboyant attire, but the temptation to tease him had been too great to resist.

"You mean you like it," Jamie countered, his voice dry. The look he shot me was one part exasperated, one part fond—a combination that had become a familiar dance between us.

"You can wear them under your swimmers," I suggested, trying to maintain a straight face as Jamie rolled his eyes dramatically. The expression on his face was so exaggerated, I half-expected him to start seeing the inside of his own head.

"Well, in any case, you can use these to start a fire," I said, shifting the topic to something more practical. I held up the textbooks I'd gathered, an offering to the practicalities of survival in the wilderness. The thong joke, while amusing, was a fleeting distraction from our more immediate needs.

"Thanks," Jamie acknowledged, though his tone carried a hint of resignation. "But those books won't last long."

"I know. But I'm not sure we have anything else just yet." The admission felt like a small defeat, a reminder of the constant battle against the elements and our own limitations.

"You could take the car down to the petrol station on Main Road. They usually have small bags of firewood for sale." Jamie's suggestion was logical, practical, and utterly terrifying to me.

I gawked at him, the very idea of driving sending a familiar jolt of anxiety through me. "But you know how much I hate driving."

"Well, perhaps it might be a good time to start liking it," Jamie retorted, his smugness palpable even without looking directly at him. It was a challenge, a push against my comfort zone that I wasn't entirely sure I was ready to meet.

Now it was my turn to roll my eyes, though the gesture was more self-directed than anything. Deep down, I knew Jamie was right. My aversion to driving was a barrier, one that I would eventually need to overcome. The convenience and necessity of modern machinery, like cars, couldn't always be avoided, not if we wanted to maintain some semblance of comfort—or survival—in this place.

"I'll bring you a mattress too," I said quickly, eager to steer the conversation away from my driving phobia. "Then you won't have to sleep on the dirt." It was a peace offering, a way to move past our momentary friction. After all, despite our occasional clashes, Jamie and I were in this together, navigating the complexities of survival in a world that was as unknown as it was beautiful.

After ensuring Paul and Jamie were comfortably settled with the mattress from the spare bed and having clicked through the digital marketplace to secure additional tents for our expanding encampment, I found myself at a rare loss for distraction. The sun's descent painted the sky in hues of orange and purple, signalling the transition from late afternoon to early evening. It was in this dwindling light that I found myself seated in Jamie's car, a vessel of both freedom and fear, as I gazed through the windscreen into the vast, uncertain horizon.

My heart thumped erratically against my chest, echoing the turmoil within as I contemplated the task ahead. Jamie's advice to embrace driving, especially now, felt like a beacon of logic amidst my apprehensions. Yet, the very thought of driving the vehicle beyond the safety of the driveway sent a shiver of dread coursing through my veins.

With a deep breath that did little to steady my nerves, I turned the key in the ignition, initiating a symphony of mechanical protests. The engine's initial roar quickly devolved into a series of pitiful coughs and splutters, a tangible manifestation of my inner reluctance, before it gave up entirely with a disheartened wheeze.

"Damn it!" The frustration that erupted from me was visceral, a raw outburst that sent my fist thumping against the steering wheel in a futile display of anger. "Stupid fucking cars," I grumbled under my breath, the words a bitter acknowledgment of my own limitations.

Defeated, I clambered out of the car and sought solace on the edge of the red-brick wall that guarded our driveway, a silent witness to my moment of defeat. As I summoned an Uber through the glowing screen of my phone, I consoled myself with the thought that the convenience of modern technology could still serve my needs, albeit in a different form.

The arrival of the Uber was almost serendipitous, a sleek chariot of salvation that pulled up with an ease and confidence I envied. The driver's raised eyebrow at my unusual request for a trip to the service station did nothing to deter my resolve. The brief negotiation over accommodating the firewood in the boot was a small hurdle, easily overcome with the universal language of currency.

The journey back, with the car's boot laden with the promise of warmth and light, was a silent testament to my mixed feelings—a blend of relief at having circumvented my fear of driving and a lingering sense of evasion. Handing over an additional twenty-dollar note to the driver, I couldn't help but feel like I was bribing my way out of confronting my inadequacies. "For a good rating," I said, attempting to cloak my discomfort with a half-hearted joke.

As the Uber disappeared down the driveway, I was left to ponder the peculiarities of my situation. The firewood, now stacked beside me, was a temporary victory in the ongoing battle against my fears. Yet, as the evening chill began to seep into my bones, I couldn't deny the satisfaction of having addressed an immediate need, even if it was through unconventional means.

I stared at the small pile of wood that sat by the fence at the end of the driveway. My gaze lifted towards the still-bright sun that would very soon be starting its descent behind the mountains. My stomach grumbled. In all the excitement, I had completely forgotten to eat. I made a quick call on my mobile, before setting to work dealing with the half forest of wood that I had managed to acquire.

Once the food order was confirmed, my focus shifted back to the task at hand. Glancing around with a mix of caution and excitement, I ensured the coast was clear of prying eyes before initiating the Portal. Positioned discreetly against the back gate, the activation was nothing short of magical. A mesmerising display of fractals burst into life, their colours swirling with an intensity that transformed the mundane into the extraordinary. The fence served as the canvas for this spectacle, with the Portal expanding across the double gate, seamlessly blending with the brickwork of the house on one side and the boundary wall on the other.

The sight of the Portal, now significantly larger than its counterpart in the study, filled me with a thrill that was hard to contain. It was a moment of revelation, pondering the possibilities of its size and reach. The thought of its potential expansion, limited only by the dimensions of the corresponding screen in Clivilius, sparked a curiosity that was as vast as it was unexplored.

But then, a more pressing matter reasserted itself as my stomach protested once again, this time with a growl that could not be ignored. Fuelled by hunger, I seized the first bag of firewood with a determination born of necessity. Watching the bag vanish into the kaleidoscopic void of the Portal was a moment of pure satisfaction, a simple yet profound solution to the logistical challenge of transporting the wood. The remaining bags followed in quick succession, each disappearing with the same effortless ease of a hearty toss, a testament to the marvel of the technology at my disposal.

If Paul and Jamie are mad at me for throwing the wood through and not helping to take it to camp, I thought as a small smile spread across my tired face, they will forgive me when the pizza arrives.