The chill of the night had seeped into every corner of the tent, a stark contrast to the warmth Duke provided as he snuggled closer, seeking comfort beneath my arm. His paws, cold and intrusive against my bare chest, prompted a harsh whisper from me, "Duke! Do you really have to do that!?" Yet, even as I chided him, I couldn't help but brush his paws away with tenderness. The night's embrace had grown unexpectedly cold, and in a moment of need for warmth, I had surrendered to the sleeping bag's promise of comfort, inadvertently inviting Duke to seek refuge in its confines.

Across the tent, the faint stirrings of Joel and the familiar, soft snores of Henri painted a picture of tranquility amidst our otherwise tumultuous reality. Henri, ever faithful to his chosen spot at the bottom of the mattress, elicited a small smile from me. It was a simple joy, a reminder of the consistency his presence brought to my life, unaffected by the chaos that lay beyond the tent's fragile sanctuary.

Embracing Duke briefly, a silent thank you for his companionship, I carefully extricated myself from the sleeping bag's warmth. The ritual of sniffing yesterday's t-shirt before slipping it over my head was a testament to our current living conditions, carrying the scent of smoke and dried sweat.

As I made my way to Joel, his efforts to sit up caught my attention. The sight of him, struggling yet determined, supported by a makeshift fortress of pillows, stirred a complex mix of pride and concern within me.

"How are you feeling?" I asked, tamping down the swirling mix of emotions that threatened to surface. The shock of discovering I had a son only recently still felt unreal, a twist in my life's narrative I hadn't anticipated. I had Kate to thank for this ignorance, this gap in my life where knowledge of my son should have been. She must have known, must have made the choice to keep this truth from me, severing ties completely rather than sharing such a crucial piece of my own story.

"Water," Joel's request snapped me back to the present, his voice hoarse and weak. My frustration with the past momentarily faded, replaced by concern for his immediate needs.

"Of course," I responded, momentarily shaking off the weight of my thoughts to tend to Joel. I grabbed an unopened bottle of spring water. "Do you want to try opening it?" I held the bottle out to him, an offer meant to empower, yet prepared to assist.

Joel's attempt was heart-wrenching. The trembling of his hand as he reached for the bottle, his sharp cry of pain when his fingers failed to grasp it properly, and the subsequent fall of the bottle to the bed painted a vivid picture of his current vulnerability. My heart clenched at the sight, a mixture of empathy and a fierce desire to protect him from further pain washing over me.

"What's wrong?" My voice was steady, calm, despite the storm of worry within. I reached for Joel's arm, a gesture of support, while Duke's incessant barking at the rogue water bottle added a layer of annoyance to the moment. Ignoring Duke's reaction, my focus narrowed to Joel, to understanding the source of his pain.

"May I enter?" Glenda's voice, tinged with both formality and concern, cut through the quiet of the early morning, her head appearing through the tent's entrance as if on cue.

"Yeah," I responded, my attention shifting from Joel to her. Under different circumstances, the sudden intrusion might have sparked irritation within me, but given the context — Joel's apparent injury and our collective worry — her timing felt almost providential. "Come take a look at this." My voice, an invitation laced with urgency, beckoned her closer.

As Glenda approached, her eyes wide with a mix of professional curiosity and personal concern, I couldn't help but notice Duke's guarded stance. His gaze, unwavering and alert, followed her every step, a silent protector. A brief smile touched my lips despite the tension. At least I can always count on you to have my back, I thought, a silent nod of appreciation to my ever-vigilant companion.

"His hand is hurt," I explained, gently lifting Joel's arm towards Glenda, who had now knelt beside me on the tent floor.

Glenda wasted no time, her hands moving with the precision of experience as she assessed Joel's wrist and fingers. "Wrist movement seems fine," she noted, her focus narrowing as she delicately manipulated his hand, checking for mobility and signs of distress.

The moment she touched Joel's index finger, his reaction was immediate and sharp — a croaky yelp of pain that cut through the silence, startling even Duke. Glenda's response was swift, her diagnosis ready within seconds. Her quick judgment, ready to be shared, held the weight of our collective anxieties.

"I believe he has a broken finger," Glenda's pronouncement was both clinical and weighted, her gaze lifting from Joel's injured hand to lock eyes with his, conveying a mix of professional assessment and empathetic concern.

"How bad is it?" The question burst from me, my voice tight with sudden fear. The possibility of Joel's injury being more severe than anticipated sent a jolt of adrenaline coursing through me, igniting a flurry of worst-case scenarios in my mind. Glenda's expression, marked by a furrowed brow and the grim set of her mouth, did little to quell the rising tide of worry for my son's wellbeing.

"Impossible to say without an x-ray, but with our limited resources, I doubt it would make any difference even if we could x-ray his finger," she responded, her voice tinged with a resignation that only served to deepen my sense of dread. The slow shake of her head, a silent testament to our dire circumstances, felt like a blow, rendering me momentarily helpless.

Glenda's stark assessment felt like a cold hand gripping my heart, dragging it down into a chasm of despair. The thought that she might already be feeling defeated gnawed at me, a silent scream echoing in the confines of my skull. Fuck you, Luke! The accusation, aimed at the absent party responsible for the spiral of events leading us here, welled up with venomous clarity. Yet, the words remained unspoken, trapped by a sudden swell of emotions that threatened to overwhelm me. The frustration, fear, and anger at our situation, at Luke's part in this tangled web of consequences, simmered beneath the surface, a turbulent storm I struggled to contain.

"I'll go and check what supplies we have. I should be able to take care of it. I can always ask Luke for additional supplies if I need them," Glenda's voice was a blend of determination and practicality, offering a sliver of hope in the midst of our constrained circumstances.

"You've spoken to Luke?" The question leaped out, tinged with a hint of irritation. The thought that Luke might be out of touch with our immediate needs, that my well-being, our well-being, seemed to hover on the periphery of his concerns, stirred a familiar frustration within me.

"Not this morning. But I've given him my access card for the Royal. As long as he is careful, he will have access to all the supplies we'll likely ever need." Glenda's explanation, meant to reassure, instead highlighted a dependency on Luke's reliability—a gamble that felt increasingly risky.

"I'm glad you have that much faith in him," I sighed, the words escaping me in a breath of resigned skepticism. The likelihood of Luke having made his way to us this early, or at all, seemed slim, exacerbating my anxiety rather than alleviating it. Luke can be so easily distracted. There's no way he can keep up with our survival needs, I thought, the worry gnawing at me.

"You don't?" Glenda's inquiry, her eyebrow arched in silent challenge, sought to peel back layers of doubt I wasn't ready to openly confront.

My response was non-verbal, a tight press of my lips and a shrug that served as a barrier against further probing. Turning my attention back to Joel, I unscrewed the water bottle lid, focusing on the task at hand as a diversion from the uncomfortable truths lingering just beneath the surface.

As Joel took slow, careful sips, Glenda gently dabbed at the water that escaped down his chin. "Mind if I look the rest of him over?" Her request, directed to me but respectful of Joel's autonomy, prompted me to seek his silent consent.

Joel's nod, a soft but clear assent, granted Glenda the go-ahead. "Go for it. I have two hungry dogs to feed anyway," I said, diverting my worry into action.

At the mere hint of food, Henri's reaction was instantaneous, his body springing to life as he leapt from the mattress and darted towards the bags. I assumed his target: the tinned dog food we had managed to scrounge up. Watching him, a laugh escaped me, the sound a brief respite from the earlier tension. I reached out, giving Henri a playful scratch on the head as I retrieved a tin from the bag. It suddenly struck me how adaptable both dogs had been to our drastically changed environment.

Reflecting on our time back on Earth, Henri's preferences came to mind. Back then, his world had revolved around either the comfort of his cushion on the couch, or dictated by the leisurely pursuit of following sunlight across the living room floor. The outdoors had never been his domain, save for the deck. Ah, the deck. That was the exception. Even though he rarely showed interest in the world beyond its confines, there was a certain peace he found in simply lounging there, basking in the sun's warmth.

The thought brought a momentary pang of nostalgia, a longing for the simplicity of those days when our biggest concern was whether Henri had moved to catch the afternoon sun. Yet, observing him now, navigating the dust and unfamiliarity without a hint of complaint, I couldn't help but admire his resilience. Perhaps there was a lesson in Henri's easy acceptance of our new reality, a reminder to focus on the present and find comfort in the small, unchanged routines like feeding time, even when everything else around us had transformed so completely.

"Everything else seems to be okay. Your bruises will heal," Glenda's voice carried a note of reassurance, breaking through the temporary distraction of feeding the dogs.

"And his neck?" My voice echoed from across the tent, over the sound of Duke and Henri eagerly consuming their unexpected feast of lamb and vegetables with gravy.

"No sign of infection," Glenda called back, her response offering a momentary sigh of relief. "Don't do anything strenuous and with plenty of rest it looks like your throat will heal fine." Her advice, though directed at Joel, felt like a directive to me as well, a reminder of the cautious approach we needed to maintain.

The pungent aroma of the tinned dog food quickly overwhelmed me, a testament to my sensitive nose. Hastily, I retreated from the feeding frenzy, eager to escape the smell that clung to the air with an almost tangible presence.

Returning to Joel's side, I was met with Glenda's next suggestion. "I think it might be worth keeping a bucket of lagoon water here and dabbing some on his neck every few hours. I suspect that might help," she mused, introducing an unexpected element into our care regimen.

"Really?" The surprise in my question was genuine, sparked by the unconventional nature of her proposal. The idea that lagoon water might contribute to Joel's recovery was out of the ordinary, yet Glenda's seriousness reminded me that given the lagoon was the source of his current vitality, it actually made absolute sense.

"He really shouldn't be alive," Glenda's observation, stark and unfiltered, struck me with the force of a physical blow. The implication behind her words, the sheer improbability of Joel's survival, ignited a defensive fury within me. Who the fuck does this woman think she is, telling me my son should be dead!? My inner turmoil raged, fists clenching as I fought to contain the visceral reaction to her blunt assessment.

"But he is," Glenda continued, perhaps sensing the rising tension, her words a swift attempt to bridge the gap her previous statement had created. "I'd like to set up a lab to study the properties of the lagoon water. I'll talk with Paul and Luke about it this morning." Her proposal, a blend of scientific curiosity and proactive planning, hinted at a path forward, a possible exploration into the miraculous resilience that had kept Joel with us.

"Why Paul?" The question emerged from me, a mix of confusion and a slight easing of tension as my fists unclenched, releasing the pent-up frustration.

"With you being preoccupied with Joel, it would make sense for Paul to take responsibility for leading the camp's development." Glenda's rationale, though logical, didn't fully appease the simmering skepticism within me.

"Hmph," escaped me in a scoff. "Why not Kain? Why not you?" I pressed, unable to mask the challenge in my tone.

"I'm a medical professional. Medical matters are all that I have any interest in leading," Glenda responded, her tone matter-of-fact, leaving no room for argument. A silence followed, thoughtful, as she seemed to weigh her next words carefully.

"And Kain?" I couldn't let it go, the question hanging between us, demanding an explanation for the apparent oversight of my nephew's potential.

"Kain is a strong, young man. Luke was wise to choose him, but he lacks the experience we're going to need for our settlement to thrive." Her answer, delivered with a straightforward candour, made it difficult to continue my line of questioning. Glenda's assessment, though blunt, was rooted in a pragmatic view of our situation.

I found myself looking away, unable to hold her gaze as the reality of her words settled in. The acknowledgment of Kain's limitations in the context of our current predicament was a bitter pill to swallow, yet impossible to deny.

"Do you want me to get that bucket of water for you?" Glenda's voice softened, her offer breaking through my introspection.

"No," I found myself saying, my gaze shifting to Joel, who had managed to find a semblance of comfort in lying down again. The thought of stepping away, even momentarily, tugged at me with a mix of reluctance and necessity. "I don't ever want to leave your side, but it'll probably do me good to get a short walk and some fresh air." The admission was as much for myself as it was for her, a concession to the need for a brief respite from the weight of constant vigilance.

"Very well then. I'll be back shortly, and we'll get that finger of yours all sorted," Glenda assured Joel, her touch gentle as she patted his leg, a gesture of comfort before she rose to her feet and exited the tent.

Left alone with my thoughts, the brief exchange with Glenda lingered, a reminder of the complexities and challenges we faced. Her departure, though temporary, left a palpable void.

"You… you don't… like her… do… you?" Joel's words, fragmented by the effort it took to voice them, broke through the silence, carrying with them a weight of concern. As he struggled back into a sitting position, his eyes sought mine, looking for an answer or perhaps reassurance.

"I'm not…" The words caught in my throat as I watched him, the complexity of my feelings towards Glenda struggling to find expression. "She'll take good care of you," I finally managed, steering the conversation away from my personal reservations. The last thing Joel needed was to sense my unease, especially not when he was in such a vulnerable state. Handing him the water bottle, I hoped to divert his attention towards his immediate needs rather than our interpersonal dynamics.

"You two look well," Paul's voice, unexpected and somewhat jarring, pulled me from the moment of quiet understanding with Joel. His entrance into the tent was abrupt, his presence an intrusion into the fragile calm we had managed to establish.

"Well enough," I responded tersely, my tone reflecting my current state of mind more than I intended. The truth was, interaction was the last thing I desired, especially with the undercurrents of tension that seemed to follow overheard conversations as of late.

"I'm just collecting my things to take to the other tent," Paul announced, moving with a purpose that suggested he was keen to avoid prolonging our exchange. Watching him gather his belongings, a sense of curiosity overcame my initial irritation.

"Why?" The question was out before I could weigh its necessity, driven by a mix of surprise and a need to understand his motivations.

"Oh, Kain and I thought it would be a good idea if we took the third tent and left you and Joel to have this one," Paul explained, his actions brisk as he packed his things. "And Luke, if he ever stays with us."

"Hmph," was all I could muster in response. The mention of Luke staying with us sparked a cynical reaction, a scoff born of skepticism. "I'm not sure Luke will be spending many nights with us." My words were bitter, a reflection of the strained relationship and the complex web of feelings that surrounded Luke's presence—or absence—in our lives.

Paul's reaction, a furrowed brow followed by a silent departure, left a lingering sense of unease. Watching him leave, bag in tow, I was struck by the isolation of our circumstances, the shifting dynamics within our small group, and the unspoken tensions that seemed to dictate our interactions.

"Is there anyone… here… that you like?" Joel's question was unexpected.

I turned towards him, attempting to lighten the mood with a shrug. "I like you, don't I?" The words, meant to jest, perhaps fell a bit flat in the air between us.

"Hardly reassuring," Joel retorted, a flicker of disappointment in his eyes before he closed them, signalling a retreat from the conversation.

"What's that supposed..." My words trailed off, cut short by another intrusion.

"Hey, Uncle Jamie," Kain's entrance was abrupt, his timing impeccably poor. For fuck's sake! The irritation was instant, my patience worn thin by the constant barrage of interruptions. "Anyone else want to interrupt us this morning!?" The snap in my voice was sharper than intended, a raw edge of frustration breaking through.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt," Kain's reaction was immediate, his apology quick as he moved to leave, a clear attempt to escape the tension he'd unwittingly stepped into.

"Kain, wait," I found myself calling after him, the impulsive irritation giving way to regret. He paused, turning back with a hesitance that made me internally wince at my earlier outburst.

"I'm… it's okay if you stay." The invitation was a small attempt at amends, a bridge to mend the momentary rift my words had caused.

"I… I just wanted to see how Joel was doing," Kain admitted, his nervousness evident in the shuffle of his feet, a dance of uncertainty that I hadn't intended to provoke.

I gulped dryly, the discomfort of making Kain feel unwelcome gnawing at me. I don't mean to make Kain feel uncomfortable.

"I'm fine," Joel's whisper cut through the tension, a quiet assertion of his presence.

"Oh… you can talk now?" Kain's surprise was genuine, his approach cautious yet filled with a newfound curiosity.

"Getting there," Joel's response, though brief, was a testament to his resilience, a small victory in our current sea of challenges.

"You'd better give your voice a rest and have some more water. Keep your throat hydrated," I found myself saying, the protective instinct taking over as I gently pressed the water bottle against Joel's lips, assisting him in a simple act of care before helping him settle back down.

"You ready?" Glenda's voice cut through the tension that seemed to hang in the air like a thick fog, her entrance marked by the bag of medical supplies she carried with a sense of purpose.

"You don't need me, do you?" Kain's asked, his gaze flickering between Glenda and me, seemingly in search for an excuse to stay or leave.

"No, Jamie and I can manage," Glenda responded, her tone firm yet dismissive, as if to underscore my newfound role in this precarious balance of care. "He's getting good practice." Her words, perhaps meant as encouragement, felt like a double-edged sword, highlighting my forced participation in this unwanted crash course in field medicine.

"I'm not your fucking lap-dog," I snapped.

Kain's reaction, his face flushing with embarrassment or perhaps anger, was immediate. "I'm going to give myself a quick wash," he muttered, a quiet retreat from the growing discomfort within the tent.

Glenda knelt beside Joel, positioning the bag of supplies against her thigh. "Can you sit?" she inquired, her arms outstretched towards him in a gesture of support.

Fuck! I just laid him back down! The thought screamed in my head, a silent protest against the perpetual cycle of progress and setback. My body moved instinctively to help, only to be stopped by Glenda's sharp glare, a silent command to let Joel try on his own.

With my arms crossed defensively over my chest, I watched as Joel struggled to comply, his determination a flicker of light in the dimness of our reality. Beneath the surface of my simmering frustration, a swell of admiration for my son's resilience grew, softening the edges of my irritation.

"I'm going to get the fucking bucket of water," I announced, the words half growl, half resignation, as I turned to leave the tent, the flap closing with a whisper behind me.

The outside world greeted me with a breath of fresh air, a brief escape from the claustrophobic confines of our shelter. Duke quickly appeared at my side, his presence a silent comfort. "Come on, Duke," I found myself saying, the beginnings of a smile finding its way through the turmoil. "At least we like each other." The words, light and half-hearted, carried with them a truth that, for a moment, lifted the weight from my shoulders, a reminder of the uncomplicated loyalty and companionship Duke offered in a world where little else seemed certain.