Assessing the Broken

“Sometimes the hardest thing isn’t fixing the injury—it’s deciding who gets to lead once the bleeding stops.”

As the early morning sun crested the distant mountains, its golden light unfurled across the barren land like a slow caress, painting the ground in long amber streaks. The warmth edged closer with every second, stretching past the rocky outcrops and dusty slopes until it found me, standing quietly outside the tent. I closed my eyes briefly, letting the light settle on my face. It was a gentle reminder that even here—amid uncertainty, strangeness, and dust—beauty endured. Subtle. Persistent.

With my fingers interlaced, I raised my arms high above my head in a long, deliberate stretch, feeling the tightness unwind from my shoulders and spine. The motion stirred a dozen small pops from my joints, each one oddly satisfying. I shifted my weight from foot to foot, swaying slightly from side to side, and relished the soft tug along my ribs and lower back. Movement was a gift in this place—a quiet luxury in a world where control over much else had been lost.

There was, however, a stubborn kink in my neck—a dull ache that made itself known the moment I turned my head too far to the left. I winced, pressing my hand into the muscle gently. A small price to pay, I supposed, for the surprisingly deep and uninterrupted sleep the dark night had given me. Perhaps it was exhaustion, or the stillness of the place, or maybe it was the emotional release from the night before—but either way, I'd slept better than I had in weeks.

The moment lingered peacefully—until the soft rustle of fabric nearby caught my attention.

I stilled, arms falling naturally to my sides as I glanced toward the adjacent tent. The flap stirred, just barely, a twitch of movement that suggested someone inside was beginning to wake. The quiet hush of morning had not yet lifted, and the camp remained cloaked in that suspended calm that arrives just before the world begins its daily motion.

I held my breath for a moment, listening. Watching.

The landscape behind the tent was still awash in pink and gold, and the breeze that drifted across the campsite carried the faintest scent of warm earth and dry grass. The light was only just brushing against the fabric of the tents, but already it felt like a new chapter was beginning.

"May I enter?" My voice was tentative as I pushed my head through the tent's front flap, the dim interior a stark contrast to the golden morning light outside. The scent of canvas, dust, and something faintly metallic hit my senses as I paused in the threshold, uncertain of what I might find inside.

"Yeah," Jamie’s voice replied, weary but welcoming. His focus was entirely fixed on Joel, who, to my surprise, was upright—sitting rather than lying in the corner like some fragile relic from yesterday’s crisis. "Come take a look at this."

I stepped inside cautiously, the canvas closing behind me with a soft shuffle. My eyes adjusted quickly, drawn to the trio before me: Jamie, seated close to Joel; Duke, his posture alert beside them; and Joel himself, who looked impossibly composed given everything he’d endured. Yet it was the stiffness in his shoulders and the pallor of his skin that betrayed the truth beneath the surface.

As I crossed the short distance to them, Duke's eyes locked onto mine, his silent vigilance an ever-present reminder of the delicate peace between us. His gaze didn’t waver, as if daring me to cross some invisible line. I offered him the briefest nod—a subtle affirmation of respect—before turning my full attention to Joel.

"His hand is hurt," Jamie said, lifting Joel’s arm with a careful gentleness. The words were spoken evenly, but I could hear the tightness in them. Concern, masked as calm.

I knelt beside them, instinct kicking in as I studied the limb in question. The early morning glow seeping in from the tent’s seams danced along Joel’s wrist and fingers, casting faint shadows that made it harder to assess at first glance. Still, my hands moved automatically—trained, steady. I began with the wrist, testing movement and flexibility.

"Wrist movement seems to be fine," I murmured, more to myself than anyone else. The bones there responded as they should. No sign of swelling or resistance.

Gently, I moved to the fingers, my thumb brushing lightly over the skin, gauging temperature, checking alignment. But the moment I touched the index finger, Joel gave a sharp croak of pain—a guttural sound that made everyone still.

I paused, drawing in a slow breath. No need to probe further. The reaction had spoken louder than any scan.

"I believe he has a broken finger," I said at last, my voice level, measured. I looked up to Joel and found his eyes already on mine. There was no panic in them—only a quiet endurance, an almost eerie calm that unsettled me more than any outcry would have. Something in his gaze told me he knew this pain. That he had known many others before it.

"How bad is it?" Jamie asked, his tone edged with the kind of worry that comes from watching someone suffer when you have no tools to fix it.

I exhaled slowly, sitting back on my heels. "Impossible to say without an X-ray," I replied, my brow furrowing with frustration. "But with our limited resources, I doubt it would make any difference even if we could."

The truth of it settled over us like a heavy cloth. My hands, trained to heal, were left nearly useless in this world without the proper tools. And yet, I had to do something. The responsibility of care didn’t disappear just because the equipment did.

As I looked at Joel again, his injured hand cradled carefully in his lap, the lines between science and instinct blurred. Somehow, we would manage. We had to.

Turning to face Jamie, I was met with a look that stopped me in my tracks—a complex tangle of emotions flickered across his face. Bewilderment, sadness, and fear clashed behind his tired eyes, like storm clouds swirling without release. It was the kind of expression that made words feel too flimsy, too inadequate.

"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," I offered, keeping my tone even, laced with a calm I didn’t entirely feel. I wanted to comfort him, to assure him that things were under control, even if control was something we only seemed to be pretending to have.

"You've spoken to Luke?" Jamie's question came suddenly, the subtle flicker of surprise in his voice catching me off guard.

"Not this morning, but I've given him my access card for the Royal. As long as he's careful, he'll have access to all the supplies we'll likely ever need," I replied. The decision to give Luke the card had felt right in the moment—perhaps even necessary. Thinking of it now, it carried an oddly comforting sense of agency. At least someone could move freely between our fractured worlds.

Jamie sighed, a quiet release that seemed to carry more weight than he intended to show. "I'm glad you have that much faith in him."

"You don't?" The question was out before I could check myself, more instinct than strategy—curiosity prickling beneath the surface of Jamie's restraint.

His reaction was almost imperceptible, yet loud in its subtlety. His lips pressed into a thin, tight line, a defensive stillness overtaking his face. The shutters fell behind his eyes, and with a small, dismissive shrug, he blocked the path to any deeper conversation. The gesture said everything he wasn’t prepared to.

I let the silence be. For now.

Refocusing, Jamie uncapped his water bottle and gently tilted it toward Joel’s mouth. Joel accepted it clumsily, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated. Water dribbled down his chin, catching the light as it trickled toward his neck. Without thinking, I leaned in and dabbed away the moisture with the edge of a soft cloth, the gesture automatic and maternal in its simplicity.

In that instant, all else—tension, mistrust, speculation—melted away. Joel was the centre of our world again, and our every thought pivoted around the fragile tether of his wellbeing.

"Mind if I look the rest of him over?" I asked quietly, turning toward Jamie, deferring to the connection between them. Joel might be our collective responsibility now, but I knew how much Jamie had shouldered to bring him back this far.

Jamie looked at Joel, and Joel, with a small, almost imperceptible nod, gave his consent. It was barely a movement, but the meaning was clear enough. Trust. Permission. Readiness.

"Go for it," Jamie said, rising as though grateful for the excuse to shift his attention. "I have two hungry dogs to feed anyway."

At the mention of food, Henri—who had until now been curled up like a loaf near the corner—sprang to life with sudden purpose. He bounded towards the bags, his ears pricking in anticipation of the familiar sound of tinned dog food. The small burst of energy was almost comic against the stillness that had just passed, a jarring reminder that life, in its many forms, always demanded attention.

With Jamie and the dogs momentarily preoccupied, I turned my full attention to Joel. The familiar switch flicked in my mind, transitioning from companion to clinician. The soft whimpers and rustling of impatient paws across the tent floor became ambient noise, distant and irrelevant against the singular focus I now carried. Every breath Joel took, every twitch of a muscle, seemed magnified in this hush—a fragile thread of life I refused to take for granted.

I moved with quiet intent, scanning his face for signs of pain or fever, checking the subtle rise and fall of his chest, the colour returning to his skin. His body, while still gaunt and bruised, bore none of the alarming signs I feared. The relief settled slowly, like a calming wave lapping at my edges.

"Everything else seems to be okay. Your bruises will heal," I said, my voice deliberately steady, a balm against uncertainty. Joel responded with a slow nod—just enough to show he understood, that he was there with me, anchored in this strange new day.

"And his neck?" Jamie’s voice came from behind, tinged with that blend of distant distraction and immediate concern only someone deeply invested could manage while doing two things at once.

I placed a comforting hand on Joel’s shoulder, grounding him and myself, before responding. "No sign of infection," I called back, pleased to share a sliver of good news. The words lifted a small weight from my chest.

Turning back to Joel, I leaned in slightly, lowering my voice to a more personal tone. "Don’t do anything strenuous, and with plenty of rest, it looks like your throat will heal fine.” I made sure my eyes met his, emphasising the seriousness behind the simplicity of the instructions.

Even without words, I felt Jamie still listening—his protective instincts hovering close. That sense of interdependence struck me again: how quickly and completely our lives had become woven together, held not by choice, but by circumstance and the unspoken contracts of care.

Joel gave a faint smile. It was barely more than a twitch at the corners of his mouth, but it landed with the weight of a sunrise. There was something in his expression—tired yet defiant—that reaffirmed everything we were fighting for. The morning light, now angling gently through the canvas seam, cast his face in a warm, soft blush, as though the world itself was trying to nudge him gently back to life.

"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," I offered, the idea blooming into words even as I realised how much hope I’d begun to invest in that shimmering, mysterious pool.

"Really?" Jamie's voice rang with surprise, and I turned to see his expression shift—not with disbelief, but with the wary curiosity of someone beginning to wonder what else might be possible in this place.

As I looked back to Joel, I couldn't help but say it. The thought that had hovered at the edge of my mind since yesterday finally took form, unfiltered. "He really shouldn't be alive." The statement hung in the tent like smoke—unsettling, undeniable.

I blinked, realising the impact of my words, and quickly added, "But he is." That second sentence changed everything. It softened the blow, turned fear into awe. And just like that, the quiet returned—tense, thoughtful, suspended in that fine line we kept walking between miracle and mystery.

"I'd like to set up a lab to study the properties of the lagoon's water. I'll talk to Paul and Luke about it this morning," I declared, rising slightly as the idea took firmer root in my mind. The thought had been simmering ever since Joel’s return from the brink—no, from beyond the brink. It wasn’t just curiosity now; it was necessity. If this place was rewriting the rules of life and death, we had to understand how, and fast.

"Why Paul?" Jamie's question broke through my momentum, and I caught the edge in his voice—a blend of protectiveness, doubt, and something else I couldn't quite name.

"With you preoccupied with Joel, it would make sense for Paul to take responsibility for leading the camp's development," I replied, each word deliberate. It wasn't meant as a slight, though I knew it might feel like one. In moments like these, clarity mattered more than diplomacy. We were past the point of skirting around decisions.

Jamie’s response was immediate and sharp. "Hmph. Why not Kain? Why not you?"

I met his eyes, feeling the weight of the moment settle in my chest. "I'm a medical professional. Medical matters are all that I have any interest in leading," I answered, my tone clipped, honest. My world was blood, bones, recovery. Not walls and tools and logistics. And certainly not politics.

The quiet that followed was heavy, not hostile but pensive. I wasn’t sure which surprised me more—Jamie’s line of questioning or my own firm stance in response.

"And Kain?" he pressed again, unwilling to let the conversation drift unresolved.

I didn’t answer right away. I needed to choose my words with care. "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." My voice was steady, the assessment not born of judgement but of realism. Kain had potential, no question, but potential wasn’t what we needed just yet. Not when lives still hung in the balance every hour.

Jamie’s gaze slipped away, settling somewhere near Joel. The silence that grew between us wasn’t hostile, but it crackled with tension—like the embers of the fire from the night before, still hot beneath the ash. Our camp wasn’t just finding its physical shape; it was forming lines of trust, responsibility, and quiet hierarchies. And they were harder to navigate than any terrain outside our tents.

I cleared my throat gently, trying to soften the mood. "Do you want me to get that bucket of water for you?" I asked, rising to a half-stand, the offer an olive branch in the wake of the heavier conversation.

"No," Jamie replied quickly, almost before I’d finished the question. His eyes remained fixed on Joel, now resting again, his breath calm and even. Jamie's voice was low, thick with affection and weariness. "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."

That unexpected tenderness, raw and honest, pulled at something inside me. I nodded, swallowing back the knot forming in my throat. They’d all been through so much. We all had. But love like that, fierce and unspoken, was the one thing that hadn’t been stripped away by this strange world.

"Very well then. I'll be back shortly, and we'll get that finger of yours all sorted," I said gently, reaching out to rest my hand lightly on Joel's leg. It was both a promise and a comfort—a reminder that in the face of so much mystery, care was the one certainty I could still offer.