The leather couch squelched beneath me as I stirred from an unintended slumber, the sound oddly resonant in the quiet room. My eyes, heavy and bleary, protested as I rubbed them with the tips of my index fingers, trying to dispel the remnants of sleep. The nap had been accidental, a brief respite that turned into a deeper escape from the day's turmoil.

The phone, my reluctant anchor to the world I was trying to momentarily shed, lay dormant on the kitchen bench where I had left it. Its silence was a temporary solace, but I knew it couldn't last. With a deep, resigned sigh, I acknowledged the inevitable. I'm going to have to turn my phone back on.

Heaving myself off the couch, I felt every muscle protest, my body echoing the mental fatigue that weighed heavily on my mind. My feet dragged across the floor, the sound a soft shuffle in the otherwise still room, as I approached the bench where my phone lay.

With a hesitant touch, I brought the device back to life. "Two-eleven exactly," I murmured to myself. As the phone whirred and buzzed, catching up with the world's demands, I braced myself for the onslaught of missed communications.

Predictably, the list of notifications was dominated by Jen's attempts to reach me. The repeated calls and messages, a digital barrage of her concern and confusion, lay there unanswered. Yet, despite the guilt that tugged at the edges of my conscience, I chose to maintain the silence between us, at least for a little longer.

My fingers scrolled through the contact list, searching for Gladys. With a tap on the green phone icon, I initiated the call, and lifted the device to my ear.

As the phone rang, a bridge to another conversation, another piece of my world, I felt a mix of relief and trepidation. Each ring seemed to echo in the quiet kitchen, a sound that was both a promise and a reminder of the changes I was navigating, the old life I was leaving behind, and the new one I was yet to fully embrace.

"Hi, Luke," Gladys's voice came through, her tone laced with a weariness that mirrored my own.

"You too, hey?" I responded, a half-hearted attempt at camaraderie in our shared exhaustion.

"Huh?"

"Oh, you sound tired," I clarified, leaning against the cool, hard edge of the kitchen counter, the phone pressed against my ear.

"Um... yeah. It's been a big day," Gladys confessed, her words heavy with an unspoken weight, a story of her own that remained just beneath the surface.

"Hmph, tell me about it," I muttered, a wry smile flickering across my face.

"Mmm," Gladys hummed in agreement, her affirmation brief, offering no foothold into her world, no invitation to delve deeper.

"So, um, actually… I was wondering if I could get Cody's number from you? I really need to talk to him about what happened earlier." The words tumbled out, a mix of hesitation and urgency.

The line went silent, a pause that seemed to stretch and swell, filling the space with tension and unspoken questions.

"Gladys? You there?" My voice broke the stillness, a note of concern threading through the words.

"Uh… yeah… sorry, Luke. I don't actually have his number," Gladys replied, her voice tinged with a hesitance that piqued my suspicion.

My face scrunched with disbelief, a frown etching itself into my features. Does Gladys think I'm stupid?

"But haven't you two been seeing each other for a few months now?" I pressed, my curiosity piqued despite myself, not really having any solid ground on the timeline of their covert relationship.

"Well, yeah… sort of. But he hasn't actually given me his number." Gladys's admission floated through the line, tinged with a casualness that didn't quite mask an underlying strain.

"Address then?" I prodded further, unable to conceal my bafflement.

"No. Nothing." Her words were succinct, final, closing the door on that line of inquiry.

I rubbed my temple, a gesture of confusion and disbelief. What an odd relationship, I thought. The pieces didn't fit; their connection seemed as intangible as a shadow. But then, Cody is a Guardian. He's likely learned a few lessons on using extreme caution, a trait that, given my current predicament, seemed increasingly valuable. A lesson I could probably learn more of myself, considering the day's unravelling events.

"No worries. Thanks, Gladys," I said, a polite veneer over my swirling thoughts. I ended the call, the finality of the click echoing slightly in the silent room. Hastily, I switched the phone off again, the screen going dark as if it too, sought respite from the day's drama.

I don't need any more distractions today, especially not from my old work, I mused, a weary resignation settling over me.

"Oh, what's this?" My voice cut through the silence of the kitchen as I noticed an out-of-place brochure at the opposite end of the bench. A flicker of curiosity ignited within me as I reached for it, my fingers brushing against the glossy paper. "Where did you come from?"

As I flipped through the brochure, my eyes absorbed the vibrant images of camping equipment, tents, sleeping bags, and portable stoves, all depicted in enticing, adventurous settings. My fingers glided over the pages, the smooth paper contrasting with the growing unease in my gut. Then, I stopped, my attention snapping back to the front page where an unexpected detail caught my eye.

A message, scrawled in thick, black felt-tip pen, stood out against the colourful background. A simple phrase, "Thought this might be useful..." but its implications sent a sharp tingle down my spine. Someone had been here, in my personal space, leaving this note.

Turning three-sixty degrees on the spot, I felt a shiver run through me, the hairs on my arms standing on end. The room suddenly felt colder, more alien, as if the very air had shifted. My eyes darted around, scanning the familiar yet suddenly foreboding surroundings of my own kitchen.

Somebody's been here… in my house while I slept! The thought echoed in my head, a drumbeat of paranoia. My shoulders tensed, a primal instinct to defend my territory kicking in as I surveyed the room. But who? The question hung in the air, heavy with implications.

Every shadow seemed to loom larger, every creak and whisper of the house now a potential harbinger of unseen threats. The brochure, once an innocuous piece of paper, now felt like a tangible symbol of my vulnerability, a breach in my once secure sanctuary.

I stared down at my trembling hands, watching them with a detached sense of curiosity as if they belonged to someone else. Despite a thorough search of the house that yielded no signs of an intruder, the unease lingered, an unwelcome shadow that clung to the edges of my mind. I had rationalised the message on the camping brochure as a peculiar gesture from Cody, a conclusion that brought little comfort but allowed me to regain a semblance of focus.

The afternoon had been unexpectedly fruitful. Immersed in the aisles of the camping store, surrounded by gear and gadgets designed for the great outdoors, I'd found a temporary respite from my troubled thoughts. I'd selected sleeping bags, portable cooking equipment, and various survival essentials with a mechanical efficiency, each item a small victory in the preparation for what lay ahead.

Transporting some of these supplies through the Portal had been a surreal experience, the familiar yet always astonishing transition from one reality to another. At the Drop Zone, the evidence of activity, the diminished pile of supplies, and the distant sound of voices had sparked a fleeting warmth in my chest, a brief flicker of hope amidst the uncertainty. They were making progress, setting up the tents, transforming a barren site into something resembling a fledgling community.

Gladys's agreement to collect the remaining items with her hired truck had been another piece falling into place, a moment of cooperation in a day filled with silent confrontations and whispered fears.

The visit to the ATM, the machine dispensing crisp bills with an impersonal whir, had been another unexpected achievement. Money, a mundane yet powerful tool, now gathered for our nascent settlement’s endless needs.

Yet, despite these accomplishments, a tremor ran through my hands, a physical manifestation of the underlying current of anxiety that refused to be stilled. Our settlement desperately needs Karen, I reminded myself, the thought a mantra that both motivated and haunted me. But the question of her willingness, the uncertainty of her response, cast a long shadow over the day's successes.

I had known Karen for several years now, a connection that had blossomed from the most mundane of routines—our shared morning commute. Jane, her best friend and the catalyst for our trio, had one day mustered the courage to bridge the gap between mere proximity and actual acquaintance. That singular act of bravery had knitted together an unlikely trio, bound by the shared rhythm of daily bus rides and the unfolding of lives in those transient moments.

Karen, along with her husband Chris, held a certain esteem within the Tasmanian community, champions of the island's wild beauty. Their dedication to preserving Tasmania's natural heritage was not just commendable but deeply inspiring. Many an evening journey home was animated by Karen's tales of their latest foray into the wilderness, her enthusiasm infectious, her love for the outdoors palpable.

Their home, a charming cottage nestled in Collinsvale, stood as a testament to their lifestyle, surrounded by generous expanses of land that bore the fruits of their labour. Karen's pride in their home-grown produce was evident in her generous sharing of crisp vegetables and the occasional clutch of duck eggs. These offerings, simple yet profound, were tokens of a life lived with hands deep in the earth, connected to the cycle of growth and renewal.

The notion of cultivating anything in the vast stretches of Clivilian dust was beyond my realm of expertise. Yet, in my mind's eye, I could almost see Karen, her hands deep in the alien soil, her brow furrowed in determination, coaxing life from the barrenness. Her blend of obstinacy and practicality wasn't just admirable; it was exactly what our fledgling settlement needed. If anyone could turn those desolate dunes into a thriving garden, it was her.

However, the biggest challenge loomed large and insurmountable. Convincing Karen and Chris to step through a Portal into an unknown world, Clivilius, was a task that seemed to border on the impossible. How could I articulate the urgency, the necessity of their involvement, without revealing too much too soon? The thought alone was enough to tighten my chest with anxiety.

Shelving that monumental task for a later moment, I turned my attention to the more immediate concern: initiating contact. I reached for the whiskey, the amber liquid promising a momentary respite from the whirlwind of thoughts. As the shot glass filled to the brim, the reflection of the overhead light shimmered in the smooth surface of the drink. With a swift motion, I downed the whiskey, feeling the liquid burn its way down my throat, a fleeting but welcome distraction.

The clink of the glass as it returned to the bench marked the end of my brief respite. It was time. Gathering my resolve, I picked up the phone, my fingers hovering momentarily over Karen's contact before pressing with a decisiveness that sent an unexpected shiver down my spine.

The phone screen lit up with Karen Owen's name, the pulsing ringtone filling the room with a rhythmic reminder of the impending conversation. As the rings echoed, a blend of anticipation and dread churned within me. When her voice finally broke through, a distant yet distinctly familiar sound, a wave of relief momentarily washed over me.

After a brief pause, a moment of gathering, I activated the loudspeaker, the device now a bridge between my world and hers. With a deep, steadying breath, I prepared to navigate the conversation, to lay the groundwork for what I hoped would be a pivotal alliance. The weight of the impending dialogue pressed heavily upon me, each second stretching out as I braced myself to articulate the need for her involvement, to subtly sow the seeds of curiosity and urgency without revealing the full scope of the challenge that lay ahead.

"Hey, Karen," I projected a semblance of my usual cheerfulness into the phone, striving to infuse the conversation with a sense of normality despite the tumult churning within me. "Can you hear me okay?"

"Yeah. You're a little soft, but I can hear you well enough," Karen's voice came through, a thread of connection in the vast uncertainty that enveloped me.

"Oh, good." The words were a placeholder, a brief respite as I gathered my thoughts, my tongue tracing the edges of my teeth in a nervous habit.

The silence that followed was filled with unspoken questions, the hum of the bus in the background a subtle reminder of the ordinary world Karen inhabited.

"I'm on the bus with Jane," Karen offered, a slice of her daily routine laid bare in that simple statement.

"Oh, hi, Jane," I raised my voice slightly, as if volume could bridge the physical distance. "She says hi," Karen relayed, her tone light. “She says you're a slacker. We haven't seen you on the bus all week."

A chuckle, forced and hollow, escaped me. "Ahh... yeah, I know. I've had the week off work," the lie rolled off my tongue, a mask to hide the reality of my situation. In truth, I hadn't been to work; I hadn't even been near the bus route. My days had been consumed with the Portal, the settlement, and now, this crucial call.

"Fair enough then." Karen's response was casual, accepting, the kind of easy acquiescence born of long-standing friendship.

The silence lingered like a dense fog, each second stretching out, laden with the anticipation of the conversation's true purpose. "Are you busy tomorrow morning?" I ventured, the question cutting through the quiet. Karen, ever the epitome of activity and purpose, had her days filled, yet I clung to the hope that her reduced work schedule might offer an opening.

Her response came with the usual pragmatism that defined her. "Well, Chris and I have to make an early start in the morning to fix the small hole in the retaining wall. It keeps running mud underneath the backdoor when it rains." Her mention of domestic chores, so grounding and ordinary, contrasted sharply with the abundant chaos of my own circumstances. "But if you come over at nine, Chris might cook you up a fresh duck egg omelette." The offer, warm and unexpected, momentarily disarmed me.

My eyebrow arched in surprise. Well, that was unexpected, I mused silently. The invitation to their home, a place I knew was their sanctuary, rarely opened to outsiders, underscored the depth of our friendship. Yet, the casualness of her invitation belied the gravity of my planned visit. "That'd be lovely," I managed to say, masking the whirlwind of emotions churning inside me.

"Okay. We'll see you around nine, then," Karen confirmed, her voice steady and unaware of the storm she had unknowingly stepped into.

"Okay, bye," I echoed, a part of me eager to escape the confines of the call. The moment I disconnected, a sigh of relief escaped my lips, a temporary release from the tension that had built up. The call had been smoother than anticipated, yet as the relief ebbed away, a fresh wave of anxiety crashed over me. The realisation hit hard; the conversation had been a mere prelude, a stepping stone to the real challenge that awaited.

The bottle of whiskey seemed to call out, a siren promising oblivion from the mounting stress. As I poured another shot, a stray strawberry seed dislodged itself from between my teeth, a trivial yet oddly grounding reminder of the day's earlier, simpler moments. The liquid burned down my throat, a fleeting respite, as I braced for the impending visit—a meeting that held the potential to alter the course of our lives, entwining Karen's fate with the uncertain future of the settlement and all it entailed.

The Clivilius sky was a canvas of fading light, its celestial body inching ever closer to the horizon, casting elongated shadows across the barren ground. Time seemed to warp here, the sun's slow descent marking the passage of a day that felt both endless and abruptly short.

A sudden, jarring clang disrupted the quietude, snapping my attention to the left. My gaze landed on Kain, whose silhouette was almost comical against the vibrant backdrop. He was a young man of determination, a fact accentuated by the three sleeping bags haphazardly draped over his shoulders. They seemed to dance with each step he took, as if they were part of a bizarre balancing act. In one of his hands, he clutched a small, nondescript box, its contents a mystery that piqued my curiosity.

"Hey, Kain," I called out, the words slicing through the crisp air. My hand, clutching the whiskey bottle, rose in a half-hearted salute. The amber liquid caught the dying light, casting a warm glow on my fingers. "Come join us for a drink."

Kain quickened his pace, a gentle jog that caused the sleeping bags to bounce with a rhythm all their own. I couldn't help but smile at the sight. It was a moment of levity in a world that had already felt its’s fair share of heaviness. Kain, with his unwavering determination, seemed to embody a resilience I found both admirable and enviable. Perhaps he was unaware of the precarious dance of the sleeping bags, or perhaps he simply didn't care. Either way, it was a small beacon of normality in our abnormal reality.

"What you got?" Kain inquired, his breaths coming in light, measured gasps as he neared.

"Whiskey," I announced, my voice laced with a warmth that mirrored my smile. I paused, extending the bottle toward him, allowing the last rays of sunlight to illuminate its contents. The whiskey shimmered, a liquid gold that promised a brief respite from our worries.

Kain's eyes, wide with a mix of fatigue and anticipation, fixed on the bottle. It was more than just a drink; it was a momentary escape, a shared experience that transcended our surroundings. In that instant, the bottle wasn't just a container of alcohol; it was a vessel of connection, a silent acknowledgment of our shared humanity.

Kain's grip on the bottle was firm, decisive, as he lifted it to his lips. I watched, a sense of camaraderie mingling with a twinge of concern, as he took a generous gulp. His eyes squeezed shut, a silent testament to the whiskey's potency. I couldn't suppress a grin, familiar with the fiery trail the liquid was etching down Kain's throat, a visceral warmth in the cooling Clivilius evening.

"Fuck, that's some strong shit," Kain remarked, a touch of respect or perhaps surprise in his voice. He dabbed at his mouth, erasing a rebellious trickle of whiskey with a rugged sweep of his hand.

"Of course," I replied, my voice imbued with a mix of pride and nostalgia. "I wouldn't have whiskey any other way."

Our conversation meandered as we made our way back to camp, the ground beneath our feet shifting softly, a rhythmic accompaniment to our voices. Kain's mood seemed lighter, a contrast to the heavy air that had clung to him since our arrival. I wondered if the whiskey, the company, or the setting was to thank for this shift. Perhaps, I mused, it was a blend of all three, a perfect concoction for the momentary lifting of spirits.

"Forgive me yet?" I ventured, my tone playful yet laced with an undercurrent of genuine curiosity. The question hung between us, a delicate thread in the fabric of our interaction.

Kain's reaction was immediate, the shift in his demeanour palpable. He snatched the bottle back, his expression hardening, eyes narrowing with an intensity that belied the earlier ease. "I'm doing this for Uncle Jamie, not for you," he stated, his voice sharp, a striking difference to the mellow hues of our previous exchange. The words were a jolt, a reminder of the complexities of our relationship, tangled with duty, resentment, and blatant trickery.

He took another long pull from the bottle, perhaps seeking solace or perhaps simply a moment to gather his thoughts. Then, abruptly, he thrust the bottle back at me, the motion brusque, final. Without another word, Kain turned and walked away.

"At least let me take one of those bags for you," I offered, my voice trailing behind Kain as I observed his laborious effort to maintain equilibrium. The bags seemed almost alive, shifting and swaying with each step he took, as if they were determined to escape his grasp.

Kain's response was wordless, a testament to his stubbornness or perhaps his desire to carry his own burdens, both literal and figurative. With a fluid motion, more of resignation than relief, he unhooked one of the bags from around his neck and let it fall to the ground, raising a small cloud of dust as it landed with a muted thud.

"Oh well," I muttered under my breath, a mixture of disappointment and understanding colouring my tone. It was the thought that counted, I reassured myself, even if it went unacknowledged. Approaching the discarded bag, I bent down, my movements slow, weighed down by a cocktail of emotions and the day's fatigue. I gently brushed off the dust that had quickly claimed the bag, a fine, gritty layer that clung stubbornly to the fabric. The action was almost therapeutic, a moment of connection with the tangible, amidst the intangible complexities of our interactions.

With the bag now somewhat cleansed of its dusty coat, I straightened up, the weight of the bag in my hand a stark contrast to the heaviness in my heart. I took a deep swig from the whiskey bottle, seeking comfort in its familiar burn, a momentary escape from the swirling thoughts and unspoken tensions.

As I made my way toward the campfire, the sound of Kain's voice drifted back to me. "Luke's here," he informed Glenda, his tone neutral, the earlier intensity gone. He didn't stop, didn't linger at the fire's welcoming glow, but continued on toward the tents.

Glenda's gaze lifted from the flickering campfire, her eyes lighting up as they found mine. "Luke!" she called out, her voice cutting through the evening's coolness.

I responded with a cheerful wave. Maybe Glenda will be in a better mood, I mused silently, the thought a glimmer of hope.

"Haven't seen much of you at all since this morning," she observed.

"I know..." I started, my words trailing off, a blend of apology and explanation hovering unspoken. Before I could delve into the details of my day, Glenda pressed on, her words quick, a cascade of thoughts spilling forth.

"But I've noticed new supplies at the Drop Zone, so I figured you hadn't forgotten us." Her statement, laced with a hint of reproach yet underpinned by relief, struck a chord.

"Of course not," I affirmed, the words imbued with a mixture of pride and determination. The responsibility of ensuring our group's well-being weighed heavily, a constant companion.

"Ooh. That's some good whiskey you got there," Glenda remarked, her attention shifting to the bottle cradled in my hands. Her observation, casual yet pointed, hinted at a shared understanding of the small luxuries that became anchors in our new home.

I chuckled softly, the sound a gentle ripple in the evening's stillness. "Help yourself," I offered, extending the bottle toward her, an invitation to share in the moment's respite.

Glenda accepted the bottle with a nod, her fingers wrapping around it with an ease born of familiarity. I watched as she took a generous swig, the whiskey's potency evident in the slight shiver that ran through her. "Ahh. Just what I needed. Whoo," she exclaimed, a mix of satisfaction and surprise in her voice.

"Where's Paul?" I inquired, my eyes scanning the camp, feeling a prick of concern. Paul's absence was notable, especially since he hadn't been at the Drop Zone earlier with Kain.

The campfire crackled louder as Glenda tossed another small log onto it. The flames briefly leaped higher, casting fleeting shadows across her face as she answered, "Oh, he went to check on Jamie and Joel." Her tone was nonchalant, but I detected a undercurrent of something else—resignation, perhaps, or a hint of concern.

At her words, a surge of urgency propelled my feet forward. "No!" Glenda's voice sliced through the air, stopping me in my tracks as I took several strides towards Joel's tent. "They're at the lagoon," she added, her voice steadying.

"The lagoon?" Confusion laced my question. "Why the lagoon?"

"Joel died… again," Glenda's words were heavy, laden with a complexity of emotion that her confused expression mirrored.

I bit my lip, processing the information. "Well, that's hardly a surprise," I finally responded, my voice tinged with a bitter acceptance. "Perhaps he really was always dead." The words hung between us, a macabre suggestion, playing with the idea of existence and the finality of death in our unpredictable reality.

"Perhaps," Glenda echoed, her shrug carrying a weight of uncertainty, a visual capitulation to the unknowable aspects of our existence here.

Seeking to break the sombre mood, if only for a moment, I offered, "More?" My hand extended the whiskey bottle toward her, an offer of solace in liquid form.

"No thanks," she declined, her voice firm yet weary, signalling a retreat into her own thoughts.

"Bag," Kain's voice cut through the cool air, his tone firm yet not devoid of urgency. His hands gestured, a clear signal for me to toss the bag his way. I complied, a smile touching my lips. The bag sailed through the air, a brief arc of solidarity in our shared struggle. Kain caught it with practiced ease and, without another word, he turned and disappeared into the medical tent.

"Glenda!" The sound of Paul's voice, laden with a mix of urgency and relief, redirected my attention.

"Joel?" Glenda's response was a whisper, almost to herself, a mix of hope and disbelief colouring her tone.

I turned, my curiosity piqued, and my heart skipped a beat at the sight before me. Joel, a figure so often shrouded in the spectre of demise, was being supported by Paul and Jamie. The impossibility of the moment struck me—Joel's legs, those very limbs we had seen lifeless, were now moving. It was a clumsy, uncoordinated dance with life, but it was movement nonetheless.

My astonishment mirrored in Glenda's wide eyes, we hastened toward them, drawn by a mixture of concern, curiosity, and a burgeoning sliver of hope.

"He's bleeding!" Glenda's exclamation sliced through the evening air, her voice sharp with concern. Her eyes were fixed on Joel, her focus absolute.

"Luke, get me some tissue from the medical tent," she directed, her gaze never wavering from Joel's animated form.

"Yeah," I responded, my voice a tad distant, as if the reality of the situation hadn't fully sunk in. The urgency in Glenda's voice acted as a jolt, attempting to pull me out of my stupor.

Before I could snap into action, Kain's voice rang out, "I got it!" His initiative spared me from my dazed inertia. I watched, somewhat gratefully, as Kain dashed from the medical tent with a speed that betrayed his own concern.

In moments, Kain was extending the tissues to Glenda with swift efficiency. "Ta," she murmured, her attention already on Joel, pressing the tissues against his nose, which was now marred by a trickle of blood.

"Let's get him sitting," she commanded, her voice a blend of authority and care. Her hands were gentle yet firm as she aided in positioning Joel on a large log near the campfire.

"Not too close," she reiterated, her eyes scanning Joel's face for further injuries. "Is it just his nose?" she inquired, her tone now laced with a mix of hope and trepidation.

"I think so," Jamie replied, his voice carrying a hint of uncertainty.

"I didn't even notice it was bleeding," Paul's admission came, a tad too late, revealing his previous unawareness of Joel's condition.

My eyes rolled involuntarily. Don't tell them that, I chastised him silently. You don't need to make your obtusity so obvious that it makes them even more suspicious. In this moment, every action, every word, seemed to carry weight, and Paul's admission, however honest, felt like an unwelcome addition to the already heavy air of concern surrounding us. My mind raced, analysing the situation, the dynamics of our group, and the implications of each uttered word, as we all navigated the delicate balance of survival, care, and the unspoken tensions that threaded through our interactions.

Glenda knelt with a clinical focus in front of Joel, who sagged between Paul and Jamie. Her brows furrowed in concentration, her mind grappling with the situation's improbability. "I don't understand how he can be bleeding. I'm certain there was no blood in him earlier," she muttered, more to herself than to us, her voice a mix of bewilderment and scientific curiosity.

Jamie, equally puzzled, shook his head, his expression one of disbelief. "I didn't give him any of my blood. But he seems to have plenty of his own now," he said, his voice laced with a mix of relief and confusion. The situation defied logic, yet the evidence was undeniable, flowing from Joel's nose and pulsing beneath his skin.

"Yes," Glenda confirmed, her fingers probing Joel's arms and legs with a gentle yet methodical touch. "There is definitely blood in his veins now. It's a medical anomaly!" Her declaration hung in the air, a label for the inexplicable that was unfolding before us.

Rising to her feet, Glenda's actions shifted from medical examiner to one seeking solace in the familiar. She took the whiskey bottle from my hand, her grip firm, perhaps seeking a momentary escape from the surrealness. "You better lie him down again once the bleeding stops," she instructed, her gaze sweeping over Joel with a mix of professional concern and personal investment. Then, as if to punctuate her command, she took a hearty swig from the bottle, the liquid courage perhaps to steel herself against the day's oddities.

I chuckled, unable to resist the humour in the juxtaposition of Glenda's scientific mind and her human reaction to the unexplainable. Her duality, mirrored in the blend of perplexity and joy at Joel's condition, was a welcome moment of levity.

"Nightfall can't be too far away now," Paul observed, his voice pulling me back from my musing. His eyes were cast upward, perhaps seeking answers or solace in the Clivilius sky, its hues deepening as day bled into night. “I’ll prepare us some food.”

"I'll help you," Kain interjected swiftly, the camaraderie in his voice a stark contrast to the solitude of his earlier demeanour. Together, they moved toward the supply tent, their silhouettes blending into the encroaching darkness.

As Glenda found her spot across the crackling campfire, I took the opportunity to shift closer to her, my steps measured, carrying a weight that was more than physical. My gaze inadvertently lingered on Jamie, whose actions with Joel painted a picture of tender care and unwavering attention. It was a scene that ignited a blend of emotions within me—appreciation for his compassion juxtaposed with a tinge of personal sorrow. In these moments, Jamie had unveiled a depth of empathy, a capacity for affection that was both beautiful and, in a way, bewildering.

So, why has he never shown me this much affection? The question echoed in my mind, a silent whisper amidst the crackle and pop of the fire. My expression unconsciously mirrored my turmoil, a frown etching itself across my features as I grappled with feelings of neglect and longing for the connection that seemed so effortless now for Jamie.

"You alright?" Glenda's voice broke through my reverie, her inquiry laced with genuine concern. Her eyes met mine, offering a silent space for confiding, should I choose to reveal the churn of emotions beneath my stoic exterior.

"Yeah," I responded, a bit too quickly perhaps, as I averted my gaze to the fire's mesmerising dance. Its flames licked at the night, casting a warm glow that contrasted sharply with the coolness settling in my chest. I took another sip of whiskey, letting the liquid's heat seep down my throat, a fleeting substitute for the warmth I craved on an emotional level.