Already Running Out

"Progress in Clivilius is measured in pillows found and vehicles bunny-hopping through dimensional portals—and apparently, my brother's breakfast dates."

"Glenda's cooking breakfast."

Kain's voice pierced the silence, pulling me back from my reverie amidst the dust and collected items at the Drop Zone. I had been cataloguing mentally, running through the inventory of supplies that Luke had deposited here over the past days, trying to calculate how long we could survive on what we had. The numbers weren't encouraging. Too many mouths, not enough supplies, and no clear system for replenishment beyond whatever Luke decided to bring through the Portal on whatever schedule he felt like keeping.

I looked up, a flicker of surprise crossing my face.

"You came all that way to tell me that?"

My voice carried a mix of amusement and disbelief. The thought of breakfast seemed almost too good to be true. Hot food, prepared by someone who actually knew what they were doing over a makeshift campfire—it felt like a luxury we didn't deserve. My stomach responded to the mere mention of food with an embarrassing growl that I hoped Kain hadn't heard.

Kain laughed, the sound carrying easily in the open air. "She's insisting that we all eat a hearty meal. We need to keep our strength up for the busy day ahead of us."

His grin was infectious. There was something warming about his enthusiasm, this young man who had been kidnapped from his life less than two days ago, already finding reasons to smile. His fiancée was pregnant back on Earth. His mother had no idea where he was. And yet here he stood, grinning about breakfast like it was the most natural thing in the world. I envied that resilience. Wondered if I had ever possessed it myself.

"Sounds like she has plans," I replied, my laughter mingling with his.

"I believe so," Kain affirmed, now standing beside me. "So, what's your assessment?" he inquired, his gaze sweeping over the Drop Zone, curiosity evident in his tone.

Caught off guard by the question, I paused.

"Oh."

I let the word hang in the air as I gathered my thoughts. I considered the practical needs of our settlement, the balance between immediate necessities and long-term sustainability. The manager's instincts, at least, hadn't entirely abandoned me.

"I'd really like us to get some more concrete poured for the sheds. Nearly everything here has been here for less than twenty-four hours and it's already covered in a layer of fine dust," I explained, demonstrating my point by swiping my finger along the top of a large tent box, revealing a layer of dust on my fingertip to Kain.

The red-brown powder clung to my skin, testament to the relentless encroachment of this world's most persistent element. I rubbed my thumb against my finger, feeling the grit, watching the way it seemed to multiply rather than diminish with the motion. This dust was different from anything I had known in Broken Hill. It was finer. More invasive. More... persistent, as if it had a will of its own.

"I don't think it matters what we do," Kain replied, his tone resigned yet pragmatic. "We're never going to stop that, but the sheds should help."

He was right, of course. The dust was a constant here—in our clothes, our food, our lungs. Fighting it completely was futile. But containing it, creating spaces where we could store supplies without them being buried in grit—that was achievable. Small victories. That was all we could hope for in this place.

"Hmm," I murmured, my mind returning to the myriad tasks that awaited us, the constant battle against the encroaching dust a minor yet persistent reminder of the challenges we faced. The list in my head grew longer with each passing hour. Sheds. Roads. Water storage. Food preservation. Shelter improvements. And beneath all of it, the question I kept pushing aside: how were we supposed to build a community here when we could barely keep ourselves fed?

"Any more tents?" Kain's question brought me back to the present.

"Yeah," I answered, scanning the area. My eyes swept across the collection of boxes and bags that Luke had deposited here. "Looks like there's only one. We can take the boxes back to camp when we go for breakfast."

"Yeah," Kain agreed with a chuckle, his earlier sombreness momentarily forgotten. "I'm sure Glenda will get it up quick."

I nodded, a sense of admiration in my agreement. "She definitely knows what she's doing with them. Far more than I do," I admitted.

It was becoming a familiar refrain. Glenda knew tents. Kain knew concrete. Jamie knew... complaining, mostly, but also survival in ways I was only beginning to understand. And what did I know? Supply chains. Inventory management. The art of delegation in a world where there was no one left to delegate to.

"And me," Kain added sombrely, his voice carrying a hint of self-reflection.

As I glanced over at Kain, I realised that he was grappling with more challenges than I had initially perceived. Despite his youthful age and the noticeable difference in our heights—he stood a good head taller than me, broad-shouldered and strong in ways I had never been—Kain's dedication and skill had already made a significant impact. His work with the concrete had not only impressed me but also highlighted his valuable contributions to our collective efforts. The slabs he'd helped pour would form the foundation of something lasting—sheds, perhaps eventually buildings. Real infrastructure. Real progress.

"Don't doubt yourself, Kain. You've got amazing skills," I assured him, my tone imbued with genuine respect and encouragement.

He needed to hear it. We all needed to hear it, sometimes—that we mattered, that our contributions counted. In my old life, I had been stingy with praise, hoarding it like a resource to be rationed. Here, where morale was as precious as water, I was learning to be more generous.

"Thanks," he responded, his reply brief yet carrying a weight of appreciation.

Then, abruptly, his attention shifted, his head snapping up like a dog catching a scent.

"Is that a pillow?"

"Where?" I found myself asking, my interest piqued, eyes straining to follow the direction of his pointing finger.

The prospect, no matter how slim, stirred a flicker of hope within me. The discomfort of last night's sleep was still fresh, a sore reminder of our austere living conditions. My back ached with a dull persistence that had become my constant companion. My neck was stiff, the muscles knotted from sleeping on ground that seemed to find new ways to be uncomfortable every night. A pillow—even one pillow—seemed like a gift from the heavens.

"Wedged between the two boxes," Kain clarified, his movements quick as he navigated through the makeshift aisles created by our organised chaos.

"It is," he exclaimed, his voice lifted in triumph as he retrieved the pillow from its hiding spot.

It was a standard pillow, nothing special—the kind you might find in any department store back home, the kind Claire and I had dozens of, the kind I had never given a second thought to. But here, in this dust-covered wasteland, it looked like treasure. It looked like the most beautiful thing I had seen in days.

"Just the one?" The words left my mouth even as a part of me already knew the answer. Of course it was just one. Of course there wouldn't be enough for everyone. That was how this place worked—small mercies, insufficient quantities, the constant mathematics of scarcity.

"Looks like it," he confirmed, making his way back to me, the pillow in hand.

I couldn't help but frown at the realisation. "Like one pillow will do us much good," I remarked, the bitterness in my voice betraying my frustration.

The thought lingered, heavy with irony—how such a small comfort could have significantly improved the quality of my rest last night. I could almost feel it beneath my head, the softness, the support, the small barrier between my skull and the unforgiving ground. Yet, despite the sting of missed opportunity, the discovery of even a single pillow felt like a small victory. We would figure out who needed it most. We would make do, as we always did.

"What are you two creeping about for?"

Luke's voice, unmistakable and imbued with his characteristic briskness, sliced through the stillness of the morning as he approached the Drop Zone. My brother. The man who held all the answers and shared almost none of them. The gatekeeper of worlds, appearing when he pleased and vanishing when he was needed most.

Both Kain and I spun around, the suddenness of his voice jolting us from our focus on the newly discovered pillow. Luke stood at the edge of the Drop Zone, looking as fresh and composed as if he'd just stepped out of a shower rather than through an inter-dimensional portal. The contrast with our dust-covered, sleep-deprived states was almost insulting.

"Hey Luke!" My response was sharp, a mix of surprise and accusation. "When did you drop off the sleeping bags?"

Luke paused, his expression turning contemplative as if trying to recall a detail amidst the blur of his tasks. "Umm. Would have been sometime late yesterday afternoon or early evening. Why?"

His question, simple and direct, seemed oblivious to the undercurrent of frustration his absence had stirred. Of course he didn't understand. He came and went as he pleased, passing through the Portal like it was a doorway between rooms. He didn't have to sleep in the dust, wondering what supplies might be waiting uncollected at the Drop Zone. He didn't have to ration water or worry about whether there would be enough food for dinner. He slept in a bed somewhere on Earth, with pillows and sheets and running water, and then he popped over here to drop off supplies like it was some kind of charity delivery.

My irritation found a voice, tinged with sarcasm, as I snatched the single pillow from Kain and thrust it towards Luke.

"Didn't you think it might be a good idea to let someone know?"

The words were more a jab than a question, a release valve for the pent-up annoyance at his lack of communication. All those years in business, I had learned that communication was everything. You didn't just deliver something and walk away. You confirmed receipt. You followed up. You closed the loop. But Luke operated on his own logic, his own schedule, his own incomprehensible set of priorities.

Luke's attempt to respond was stammered, cut short by my continued argument.

"If Glenda hadn't sent Kain over to collect the box of tent pegs, we wouldn't have had them for sleeping last night," I pointed out, the frustration in my voice rising with each word. I glanced at Kain, seeking an ally in this moment of tension.

Kain, caught in the crossfire, opted for a non-committal retreat, his hands raised in surrender and his head shaking in disbelief as he backed away slowly, unwilling to be drawn into the fray. Smart man. He was learning quickly that getting between the Smith brothers was rarely a comfortable place to be. We had decades of practice at this particular dance.

Luke's retort came swiftly, his patience evaporating. "I have a lot planned to bring through the Portal for you, and I don't have the time to take it further than the Drop Zone. Besides, wasn't the Drop Zone your idea? You're the one who told me to leave stuff there."

His words struck a chord, a reminder of the agreed-upon system that now seemed to backfire in the face of practical reality. I had suggested the Drop Zone. I had thought it would make things easier—a designated area for supplies, separate from the living spaces, where Luke could deposit whatever he brought through without disrupting the camp. I hadn't anticipated that Luke would simply dump things and disappear without a word. Hadn't anticipated that my carefully planned system would be undermined by my brother's chronic inability to communicate.

"Yeah, but you need to at least tell someone," I insisted, my argument losing steam even as I made it. The logic was on his side, and we both knew it.

"I don't have time for that crap, Paul!" Luke's voice snapped, sharper now, his frustration mirroring my own. "You, or someone else, will just have to check frequently."

The confrontation, fuelled by mutual stress and the pressure of our circumstances, left me momentarily deflated. As much as I relished the verbal sparring with Luke—and there was something almost comforting about it, something that reminded me of who we had been before all of this—a part of me recognised the validity in his argument. Despite the annoyance it caused, the Drop Zone was indeed my idea, and his contributions, however unannounced, were invaluable. Reluctantly, I backed off.

"Hey, Kain!" Luke's call cut through the tension that had lingered from our previous conversation, shifting the focus entirely. "Do you still have the keys to your ute?"

Kain's immediate response was to pat down his jeans in a near-reflex action, his movements quick and purposeful. When his hand emerged from the back pocket with the keys, a small wave of relief seemed to wash over him. "Actually, I do," he announced, a note of surprise in his voice as if he hadn't expected to find them.

The keys dangled in the air between us, catching the morning light. Small and mundane, they represented something enormous—a connection to Kain's old life, a practical tool for our new one.

"If you give them to me, I'll bring your ute through," Luke offered calmly, his demeanour unflappable as always.

My eyes widened in response, the implications of Luke's words slowly sinking in.

A ute? Luke's bringing us a ute?

The possibility seemed almost too good to be true. A vehicle. Transportation. The ability to move supplies, to explore further, to build something more than a cluster of tents in the dust. My mind raced with the possibilities—we could transport concrete more easily, could venture further from camp to scout resources, could feel like something other than castaways stranded in an alien desert.

"Really?" Kain asked, his excitement palpable as he moved closer to hand over the keys.

Luke's nod was all the confirmation we needed.

"That's mad!" Kain exclaimed, the keys now securely in Luke's possession.

The promise of having a vehicle at our disposal was thrilling.

This is so exciting, I thought to myself, a flicker of personal longing crossing my mind. I want my car!

The thought surprised me with its intensity. My car, sitting in the garage back in Broken Hill. Claire probably hadn't even moved it. Probably hadn't noticed I was gone long enough to wonder about the car. The bitterness of that thought curdled the excitement, leaving a sour taste in my mouth.

Yet, almost as quickly as the excitement had risen, it was tempered by a more pragmatic concern.

"But what happens when it runs out of fuel?" I asked, unable to keep the scepticism from my voice. A ute was only useful as long as it could run. Without fuel, it would become nothing more than an expensive shelter from the dust—a monument to our dependence on resources we couldn't replenish.

"I'm working on a solution for that," Luke assured us, though his answer was far from satisfying.

"Like what?" I pressed, seeking a more concrete plan.

Luke's shrug was noncommittal, his response infuriatingly vague. "I'm not a hundred percent sure yet, but I'm getting there, so I'll let you know when I do."

It did little to alleviate my doubts. Classic Luke—offering solutions without details, promising answers without evidence. He had always been like this, even as children. Grand plans, vague execution, absolute confidence that everything would work out somehow.

"That's very vague of you," I remarked, my scepticism deepening.

"Have you spoken to my mother?" Kain asked, interrupting our minor squabble.

The question hung in the air, heavy with implications. Kain's mother. The woman whose son had been pushed through a Portal without warning, who had no idea where her boy had gone. The question cut through the practical concerns about fuel and vehicles, striking at something far more fundamental.

"Umm, nope," Luke responded casually, almost dismissively so, as if the sensitivity of Kain's query barely registered on his radar.

"So, she has no idea where I am?" Kain pressed, his voice laced with an undercurrent of anxiety.

It was clear this was more than just a passing concern for him. His fiancée was pregnant. His mother was somewhere on Earth, wondering what had happened to her son. Lying awake at night, perhaps. Filing missing person reports. Imagining the worst.

Luke shook his head, a gesture that seemed to carry more finality than words. "Not that I know of."

His tone was nonchalant, but the implications of his words were anything but.

"Don't you think you should tell her?"

The words tumbled out of my mouth before I could stop them, driven by a sense of righteousness. It felt wrong, keeping families in the dark. Felt cruel. Felt like exactly the kind of thing I would have condemned in anyone else.

"You know that his fiancée is pregnant, right?"

It was a low blow, but I felt the situation warranted it. Brianne. Six months pregnant. Waiting for a man who might never come home, who might never explain where he had gone or why.

"Umm." Luke's annoyance was palpable, a sharp contrast to his previous indifference. "Have you asked me to tell Claire and the kids where you are?"

His counter-question was like a slap, forcing me to confront my own hypocrisy.

I fell silent, the weight of his question anchoring me to the spot.

I hadn't. And the truth was, I had no intention of letting Luke do that. Not yet. Not until I was ready for Mack and Rose to join me, preferably without Claire. The thought of her knowing where I was, of her having any access to this place—it twisted something uncomfortable in my gut. I wanted my children here. I wanted to build something for them, to show them a world beyond the suffocating normalcy of our life in Broken Hill. But Claire? Claire could stay exactly where she was, wondering, worrying, eventually moving on.

The realisation of my own double standard sat heavily in my chest. I was demanding transparency for Kain's family while hoarding secrets about my own. The silence that followed was heavy, filled with the unsaid and the undone.

"That's what I thought," Luke sneered, his voice breaking the tension. He took a deep breath, as if bracing himself for what came next.

"The less anyone outside of Clivilius knows of its existence, the better," he said, his tone firm, leaving no room for argument. "It's safer for all of us that way."

His words were like a decree, setting the boundaries of our secrecy. And as much as I wanted to argue, as much as I wanted to claim some moral high ground, I knew he was right. Knew that secrecy was our only protection. Knew that my own motivations were far less noble than concern for safety.

I nodded, the action more reflexive than anything. My mind was racing, thoughts swirling with questions and concerns. As I studied Luke, I couldn't help but wonder what he was holding back.

Had he found Cody? Did he have more information on the Guardians?

Questions I wanted to ask but didn't dare in front of Kain. Questions that would have to wait for a private moment, if such a thing existed in this cramped settlement.

The less anyone inside of Clivilius knows what is really going on, the better. At least until Luke and I could work out what really was going on.

It was a delicate balance, one that we needed to tread carefully. The Guardians. The night terrors. Joel's resurrection. The grey that had touched my arm. So many mysteries, so few answers, and a growing community of people who might panic if they knew the full extent of what we were dealing with.

Kain's hesitation was palpable, a contradiction to Luke's decisiveness.

"But I guess I could try and bring your mother through the Portal, if you'd like?" Luke's offer was unexpected, a glimmer of compromise in the rigid stance he'd taken.

"No, I think we could do without her," Kain replied, his voice steady but his body language betraying a hint of reluctance. "For now at least," he added quickly, as if to soften the blow of his words.

My head tilted sideways, an involuntary response to the undercurrents of intrigue that seemed to be unravelling.

A bit of tension there maybe?

It was a rhetorical question, even to myself. Family dynamics were complicated—I knew that better than most. My relationship with Claire had curdled into something toxic long before I'd stepped through the Portal. Whatever existed between Kain and his mother, it was clearly not simple. Nothing about family ever was.

"Well, I'd better go get your ute," Luke announced.

His statement seemed to mark the end of our current discussion, a signal that it was time to shift gears—literally and figuratively. He turned to walk away, his movements brisk, a man on a mission.

"Oh. Hey, Luke," I called out, a sudden thought striking me. It seemed only fair to bring this up now. "Can you bring Jamie's car through too?"

If Kain was getting his ute, then it was only right. Equality, even in vehicle retrieval, seemed like a small but significant form of fairness. Jamie was difficult, abrasive, perpetually critical—but he was still part of this community. His car was still sitting somewhere on Earth, useless to him and to us.

"Umm, nope," Luke teased, his tone playful yet final.

"Why not?" I couldn't hide the annoyance that crept into my voice. It was frustrating, dealing with Luke's sometimes arbitrary decisions.

Luke's expression shifted, the playfulness draining away to be replaced by a seriousness that was rarely seen. "I need it to drive to Collinsvale," he explained, his tone suggesting that this was a matter of practicality rather than choice.

"Where the hell is Collinsvale?" I asked, turning to Kain for some context. The name meant nothing to me—just another town in Tasmania, a place I had never been and might never see.

"Not far from his house," Kain supplied, his voice carrying a note of nonchalance. It was an answer, yet it provided little in the way of real information.

I turned back to Luke, a plan formulating in my mind. "Oh. So, you could walk there then," I said, my words more an assertion than a question. It was a challenge, lightly veiled in the guise of a suggestion.

Kain laughed, a sound that broke the tension that had begun to coil between Luke and me. "It's not that close," he interjected, his amusement clear.

"Gotta go now," Luke said, his voice carrying a finality that ended the exchange. He smiled and waved, a gesture of farewell that was both friendly and dismissive.

It was Luke's way, I realised; he navigated our demands and the necessities of our situation with a pragmatism that was both infuriating and admirable. Always moving, always juggling, always keeping secrets he deemed too dangerous or too complicated to share. I wanted to trust him. I did trust him, on some fundamental level. But I also wanted to shake him until answers fell out.

Glenda's familiar yet muffled voice drifted towards us on the listless air, calling something about food being ready.

"Breakfast must be ready," I surmised, my voice carrying a mix of hope and hunger. My stomach responded to the thought with an embarrassing growl that I couldn't pretend hadn't happened.

"We may as well wait for Luke to bring my ute," Kain mused, his gaze fixed on the horizon. His voice held a note of anticipation. "Imagine the others' surprise when we drive it back to camp."

The thought brought a smirk to my face, picturing the bewildered expressions that would greet our grand entrance. Jamie's face alone would be worth the wait—the perpetual critic confronted with actual progress, actual transportation, actual proof that things were moving forward.

"Yeah, it will be a surprise," I concurred, the idea amusing me.

Curiosity then nudged my thoughts in another direction. "By the way, have you seen Jamie or Joel yet this morning?"

"Yeah," Kain replied, his attention briefly meeting mine. "I went and saw them just after you left. I'm surprised Luke didn't ask about them."

I turned towards Kain, a thoughtful expression crossing my face. "I think Luke's a bit distracted right now," I offered, trying to excuse his oversight.

Luke had a thousand things on his mind—supplies, transportation, fuel solutions, whatever secrets he was keeping about the Guardians, whatever was happening in Collinsvale. Checking on Joel probably hadn't even registered on his list of priorities. Joel, who had been dead. Joel, who was now somehow alive. Joel, who represented either a miracle or a horror, depending on how you chose to look at it.

Both our jaws dropped in astonishment as the ute came bunny-hopping through the wall of swirling colours.

The Portal's surface rippled and churned with those impossible hues—blues and greens and purples that had no business existing in nature—and through it emerged Kain's ute, lurching and stuttering like a beast unused to inter-dimensional travel. The vehicle jerked forward, then stalled, then jerked again, the engine protesting with each failed attempt at smooth operation.

It stuttered and stalled, coming to an abrupt halt. The sight was so unexpected, so out of the ordinary, that we couldn't control our laughter. We doubled over, half bent in stitches, tears streaming down our faces. The great Luke Smith, Guardian of mysteries, master of the Portal, keeper of secrets that could reshape reality—and he couldn't drive a manual transmission.

A sulking Luke stepped from the ute, his expression a mix of frustration and resignation. His cheeks were flushed, his jaw tight. It was a look that only added fuel to our amusement.

"Luke! Wait!" I called out between bursts of laughter, trying to catch my breath and regain some semblance of composure.

Luke stopped in his tracks, yet he didn't turn to face us. His posture stiff, a clear sign of his annoyance. He stood there like a man who knew he was about to be asked for something and had already decided to refuse.

"I said no," he stated bluntly, his voice cutting through the humour of the moment.

I stepped beside my brother, placing a hand on his shoulder in a gesture of solidarity. The laughter was still bubbling in my chest, but I forced it down. "I know," I said, my voice softening. "It's not about Jamie's car," I continued, lowering my voice further so Kain wouldn't hear.

"Then what is it?" Luke snapped, his patience thin. "I'm already late for breakfast with Karen."

My mouth dropped open, a gape of disbelief that far surpassed my reaction to Luke's erratic driving earlier. The words didn't make sense. Couldn't make sense.

"You're going out for breakfast!"

The words tumbled out, laced with incredulity. "We're stuck in this dustbowl, and you're going out for breakfast? Unbelievable!"

I spun away, a whirl of frustration, my gaze landing on the barren landscape that stretched out beyond us—a brutal reminder of our isolation. Red dust. Empty hills. A single pillow to share among six people. And my brother was worried about being late for a meal at a café, with a menu and waitstaff and coffee that hadn't been boiled over a campfire.

"It's not like that." Luke's voice came from behind me, a hint of urgency as he reached out, his hand clasping my arm, pulling me back from the edge of my annoyance.

I wheeled around to face him, my frustration boiling over. "Then explain yourself," I demanded, my stance rigid, expecting a justification that would somehow make sense of his seemingly frivolous plans.

Luke chuckled softly, a sound that in any other context might have been comforting. But now, it only served to fan the flames of my irritation.

"What?" I barked, unable to mask the annoyance that seeped into my tone.

"You're so funny when you're mad," he said, his grin wide, as if he found genuine amusement in my frustration.

"Oh, shut up!"

My protest was half-hearted, a smile threatening to break through despite my best efforts to stay annoyed. It was always like this with Luke—his ability to defuse my anger with nothing more than a teasing word, a reminder of the brothers we had been before all of this. Before the Portal. Before Clivilius. Before our lives had diverged into paths so different we barely recognised each other anymore.

"Ahh," Luke teased, his finger pointing accusatorially at the twitching corner of my mouth—a traitorous sign of my crumbling facade.

I brushed his hand away, a mix of irritation and amusement swirling within me. "Stop being an idiot," I chided, even as the tension between us began to dissolve into the familiarity of our sibling bond. "What do you want?"

"You wanted me, remember?" Luke laughed, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

My face warmed, a blush of sheepish realisation. "Oh yeah," I admitted. "But first, why are you having breakfast with Karen?" I pressed, curious about the underlying reason for his departure.

Luke's gaze darted about, a signal of his discomfort. Kain, oblivious to our exchange, sat in the front seat of his ute, poised for departure, probably running his hands over the steering wheel with the joy of reunion.

"Well?" My impatience was palpable, a prompt for him to divulge his plans.

"I'm hoping to bring her and her husband here," Luke revealed, his voice a soft murmur meant only for my ears.

I gasped, the sound sharp in the quiet that enveloped us. My face turned serious, the weight of his intention sinking in. More people. More strangers. More complications.

"Are you sure that's a good idea? We're not exactly a thriving community."

My words were laced with scepticism, a reflection of the doubts that continued to plague me. Five people—six if you counted Joel's precarious existence, and I wasn't entirely sure we should. A handful of tents. Dwindling cash, apparently. And Luke wanted to add more mouths to feed, more bodies to shelter, more personalities to manage in an already volatile mix.

"Not yet you're not," Luke conceded, his agreement a gentle reminder of our shared aspirations. "But you will be."

His confidence was either inspiring or delusional. I hadn't yet decided which.

I eyed him suspiciously, my mind racing with the implications of his plans. "And how can they help?" I asked, my curiosity piqued despite my reservations. If he was bringing people here, there had to be a reason. Luke didn't do anything without a reason, even if he rarely bothered to explain it.

"Their skills will be pretty evident. Give them a warm welcome," Luke replied, his confidence in his decision unwavering. Another cryptic answer. Another piece of the puzzle he refused to fully reveal.

"Of course," I responded, nodding slowly.

In the end, I knew the decision wasn't mine to make. This place was challenging enough without adding unnecessary conflicts. Luke's intentions, though bold, reminded me of the broader vision we shared—a vision of transformation and growth. It was a hard life here, but perhaps I didn't need to make it harder by resisting change.

"Now, what is it you wanted?" Luke's voice pulled me back from my thoughts, his gaze steady and expectant.

"Oh," I started, my mind scrambling to collect the scattered pieces of my thoughts. "We need some more wood for the campfire."

The words felt mundane, yet the need was as vital as any other. The fire had nearly died last night, the flames sputtering down to embers that provided neither warmth nor light. Without wood, we would be left in darkness—and darkness here was not something to be taken lightly. The night terrors had taught us that much.

"Sure," Luke replied with a nod, his assurance quick and unwavering. "I'll make sure you have some before nightfall."

"And Kain and Glenda need fresh clothes," I continued, the list of necessities growing as I spoke.

They had arrived with nothing but what they wore. Days of dust and sweat had taken their toll. Glenda's shirt was stained with Joel's blood from the surgery. Kain's jeans were so coated in dust they had changed colour. Basic dignity required clean clothes, even in this place.

"Okay," Luke nodded once more, the simplicity of his response belying the importance of the task.

And with that, he turned toward the Portal, the gateway that connected us to a world we were both part of and apart from.

"And Joel too," I added quickly, the name springing to mind as an afterthought but no less important.

Joel, who had been dumped in a river with his throat cut. Joel, who had nothing but the clothes he'd been wearing when someone tried to murder him. Joel, who was slowly returning to something like life in a tent full of his own blood-stained garments.

Luke's eyes widened slightly at the addition, a visible sign of the mounting pressures. "I'll get Kain and Glenda's clothes first. But I'll need you to get me Joel's address."

"Why do you need his address?" I questioned, the suggestion seeming to complicate what I had imagined would be a simple task. "Can't you just buy them some new ones? It'd be much easier."

Luke's answer hit me like a bucket of cold water.

"We're running low on cash," he stated flatly, his voice devoid of emotion yet heavy with implication.

"Already?"

My exclamation was more of a reflex than a question. We had barely begun building, barely begun establishing ourselves, and already the money was running out. The implications cascaded through my mind—no money meant no supplies, no supplies meant no growth, no growth meant we would be trapped here forever, slowly starving, slowly dying, watching everything we had tried to build crumble into the dust that surrounded us.

How were we supposed to survive? How were we supposed to bring my children here? How were we supposed to become the community Luke kept promising if we couldn't even afford basic supplies for more than a few days?

"Yes, already," Luke confirmed, his eyes meeting mine in a brief exchange that conveyed the extent of his admission. "And get me Kain's wallet at some point for me, would you," he added, the request trailing off as he stepped through the Portal, leaving me to ponder the implications of his departure.

I watched as the vibrant colours of the Portal faded, a visual echo of Luke's presence disappearing into another reality. The swirling hues collapsed inward, leaving nothing but the empty frame and the endless red-brown landscape beyond. One moment my brother was there; the next, he was gone, off to breakfast with Karen while we rationed pillows and worried about firewood.

I sighed softly, the sound a whisper in the vastness that surrounded me.

"Stay safe, little brother," I murmured into the silence, a prayer to whatever gods might be listening in this godless place.

Whatever his faults—the secrets, the vagueness, the frustrating habit of appearing and disappearing without explanation—Luke was still my brother. Still the only person who truly understood what we were trying to build here. Still the keeper of the Portal, the provider of supplies, the architect of whatever future we might have. I couldn't do this without him. None of us could.

And now the money was running out.

A loud honk from the horn jerked me out of my introspection, slicing through the still morning air with an urgency that was hard to ignore. I glanced over at Kain, his impatience palpable even from a distance. With a few long strides, eating up the space between us, I found myself sliding into the passenger seat beside him.

"Let's go!" Kain announced, his enthusiasm manifesting in a thumbs-up that seemed to embody his readiness. His energy was infectious, yet something nagged at the back of my mind. The money. The complications. The endless list of things we needed and couldn't afford.

"No, wait!" The words burst from me as the engine roared to life, a beast awakened, eager to be unleashed.

Kain turned to me, his expression a mix of confusion and mild irritation. "What now?"

"We may as well pack those tent boxes in the back," I suggested, the practicality of the idea emerging from the remnants of our earlier conversation. It was a logical step, one that would streamline our efforts and minimise unnecessary back-and-forth trips. If we were going to do this, we might as well do it efficiently.

Kain frowned, his eagerness to drive clearly warring with his recognition that I was right.

"It'll save us coming back for them," I pressed, hoping to appeal to his sense of practicality. The rationale was sound, but it required a brief delay in our departure, a sacrifice Kain seemed loath to make.

"Fine," Kain huffed, his agreement coming as a begrudging exhale. "But make it quick!"

His tone left no room for dawdling, a clear directive that haste was of the essence.

"Oh," I laughed, the humour in the situation not lost on me. I clambered out of my seat, a movement more enthusiastic than graceful. "You're helping too."

It was a declaration rather than a request, an invitation to share in the labour. We were in this together, after all. All of us. Struggling through the dust. Rationing pillows. Watching our money disappear. Building something from nothing, one tent box at a time.

Kain's eyes rolled, a silent but eloquent commentary on his feelings about the plan. Yet, despite his apparent reluctance, his door opened all the same. We would load the boxes. We would drive back to camp. We would surprise the others with our grand entrance.

And somehow, against all odds, we would figure out what came next.