A List for Survival

“You think medicine is about knowledge—until you’re counting on a pen, a stranger, and pure bloody hope.”

"Luke," I called out, making sure my voice carried the weight of urgency it demanded as he re-entered the tent. My tone was clipped, authoritative—there was no time to waste. The adrenaline that had sustained me through the procedure was ebbing, but the situation remained critical. The attempted bite on my arm, while superficial, could become something far more sinister without proper treatment. And Jamie’s condition, though stable for now, was still fragile. I needed supplies. Fast.

Luke’s posture shifted immediately at my tone, straightening as he came to attention. His readiness to respond, even amidst the lingering tension, was reassuring.

"Listen carefully. I need you to return to the Medical Centre and get me a few supplies."

"Sure. What do you need?" he asked without hesitation, already half-turning as if he could will the journey to begin with sheer intent.

I paused, my fingers working to secure the makeshift bandage I’d fashioned from Paul’s t-shirt. It wasn’t ideal—frankly, it was barely passable—but it would keep the area clean enough until I could administer proper antiseptic. The fabric scratched against my skin, and I tugged it a little tighter, creating a seal over the reddening bite marks. It stung, but I welcomed the discomfort. It grounded me, kept me focused.

"I need..." I faltered, the sheer scope of what I wanted pressing at the edge of my thoughts. Sterile saline. Antiseptics. Bandages. Antibiotics if there were any. My mind ran through the shelves of the supply room back at the Medical Centre, visualising each tray, each labelled drawer. Things I had always taken for granted. Here, they were luxuries. Lifelines.

"Do you have any paper and a pen?" I asked instead, the question laced with a touch of doubt. Of all the things I needed, that felt almost too much to hope for. So basic. So human. Yet so unlikely in this strange, dust-coloured world.

Luke surprised me. His lips curled into a smile, the first genuine one I’d seen since I’d stepped through the Portal.

"Actually, we do."

For a moment, something shifted. The faint trace of humour in his expression, his casual confidence in the face of such uncertainty, offered a flicker of comfort.

"Good," I murmured, adjusting the cloth wrapped around my arm. The itching was growing now, not quite a burn, but a persistent irritant that sent warning bells chiming faintly in the back of my mind. I pressed the fabric a little harder into my skin, as if the pressure could hold back whatever was brewing beneath the surface. I couldn’t afford to fall ill. Not here. Not now.

The sense of vulnerability took root, deep in my gut.

It was a subtle shift, but it changed everything. Until now, I’d been the doctor—the one with answers, the one bringing relief. But in that moment, the boundary blurred. I was not immune. Not above the needs of this place. I was part of it now, subject to its risks and reliant on those around me.

The thought was sobering. Necessary, even.

I looked up at Luke, now waiting with quiet attentiveness for my instructions, and the reality struck me with clarity. I wasn’t just here to help them—they were going to help me too.

"Here," Luke's voice brought me back from the relentless calculations and medical protocols spinning through my mind. He held out the paper and pen, his expression laced with the same urgency I felt burning just beneath my skin.

I accepted them with a tight smile. "Thanks," I murmured, already beginning to write as though the ink itself could forestall whatever complications lay ahead. My pen moved swiftly across the page, each stroke a reflection of the tension building in my chest. Antiseptics. Gauze. Pain relief. Antibiotics. Fluids. Tools. It wasn't just a shopping list—it was a lifeline.

The paper filled far too quickly. Looking at it, the items seemed to grow in weight and consequence. My handwriting, usually neat and controlled, had become cramped and sharp with pressure. Hovering over the final line, I tried to justify crossing something out. Perhaps the second line of antibiotics? Or the extra gloves?

No. My eyes moved down the list again. Every item had a purpose. Every item was a necessity. There was no fat to trim. Only the barest essentials.

I exhaled heavily through my nose, the weight of the list manifesting physically in my shoulders. "A lot of this you can find in my examination room," I said, handing the list over to Luke, who had silently shifted closer while I worked. His quiet presence, steady and focused, offered a small reassurance amid the swirl of stress. "The rest," I said, tapping at the asterisks I had scrawled beside certain items, "you’ll have to take from the shared supply room."

At the mention of the shared supply room, his reaction was immediate—his head snapped up, a flicker of alarm crossing his face. The implications were clear: shared meant monitored, and monitored meant risk.

"I'm sorry, Luke, but we are going to need it all," I said, my voice firmer now, the authority of necessity bleeding through each word. It wasn’t a request. It was a fact. A reality neither of us could afford to ignore.

He held my gaze for a moment, then nodded once, the movement crisp and resolute. There was no protest, no hesitation—just the kind of quiet courage that emerges in the face of necessity. "I'll be quick, I promise," he said, determination woven through his voice like steel through silk.

"Luke," I said softly, reaching out to place a hand on his arm. My grip was firmer than I intended, a silent translation of everything I wasn’t saying aloud. I searched his face, saw the flicker of anxiety behind his calm exterior.

"Be careful," I said, the words landing between us like a plea. Unspoken behind them: The Commander. The Testers. The wrong eyes watching you. I didn’t need to say it. He already knew.

Luke’s jaw tightened as he gave a short nod, his body already turning towards the exit. The tent flap whispered shut behind him, the sound a reminder of the invisible threshold he was now crossing. He wasn’t just running an errand. He was entering contested ground on behalf of all of us.

And as I watched him go, a strange ache bloomed in my chest—something heavier than worry and deeper than relief. I had only just arrived in this world, but already, the lines between ally, stranger, and friend were beginning to blur.

We were in this together now.