Bogged in Two Worlds

"Nothing says 'fresh start in an alien dimension' quite like discovering you smell worse than a delivery truck in summer and your only clean option is your estranged father's spare shirt."

Sitting up, I felt a bead of sweat trace a line across my forehead.

The tent had become an oven. Whatever passed for a sun in this place had been hammering the canvas all morning, turning my recovery space into something resembling the inside of a delivery truck parked in the midday heat.

Time to get out of here.

The thought surprised me. Earlier, leaving the tent had seemed as impossible as folding a thousand-crane oshizushi. But now my body was restless, itching to move, to do something other than lie on a mattress counting the seams in the canvas ceiling.

A wave of self-consciousness washed over me as I sniffed my armpits, grimacing at the potent stench that emanated from my unwashed body.

Bloody hell.

I smelled like a gym locker that had been left to ferment. Worse, maybe. The combination of lagoon water, resurrection sweat, and two days of unwashed existence had created something genuinely offensive.

It was a stark reminder of the neglect my physical self had endured since my ordeal in the lagoon.

Mum would be horrified. She was fastidious about hygiene—had drilled it into me since I was old enough to hold a washcloth. Always shower after work, Joel. No one wants to sit next to someone who smells like their job.

Glancing around, I noted that Paul hadn't returned with my belongings.

So much for clean clothes by the end of the day.

The promise of my own wardrobe remained unfulfilled. Luke was apparently still on Earth, doing whatever Luke did, while I sat here marinating in my own stench.

In the absence of my own clothes, I reluctantly reached for Jamie's.

The pile sat where he'd left them—a spare shirt, trousers, basic stuff. Nothing fancy. The kind of practical clothes you'd pack if you knew you were going somewhere without shopping centres.

Slipping into his garments, I couldn't help but muse on the slight differences in our builds.

His clothes hung a bit loose on my frame, but the sensation of wearing my father's clothes was oddly comforting, a tangible connection to him that I had never experienced before.

Wearing your dad's shirt. Kids did that, didn't they? Borrowed their father's clothes, swam in oversized jumpers, felt safe in fabric that smelled like someone who was supposed to protect them.

I'd never had that. Never worn anything of my father's. Never known what his clothes smelled like.

Until now.

The shirt smelled like dust and sweat and something else I couldn't identify. Not unpleasant. Just... Jamie. A scent I was only beginning to learn.

Now clothed, albeit in oversized attire, I felt a renewed sense of dignity and readiness to face the world outside the tent.

Duke and Henri, my constant canine companions, eagerly positioned themselves by my side, seemingly aware of my intention to venture out.

Duke's ears had perked up the moment I'd started moving with purpose. Henri, more cautious, watched from his bed with an expression that seemed to say: Are you sure about this?

No, mate. Not really. But I'm doing it anyway.

With a determined push, I parted the tent fabric, squinting as the bright sunlight spilled in, bathing me in its warmth.

For a moment, I couldn't see anything—just blazing white that made my eyes water and my head throb. The darkness of the tent had spoiled me, made me forget how bright this world could be.

The sky was a brilliant shade of blue, cloudless and inviting.

Not Tasmania blue. Not the pale, cloud-streaked sky I'd grown up under. This was deeper. Richer. The kind of blue you saw in photographs of Mediterranean beaches, the kind that seemed almost artificial in its intensity.

I paused, closing my eyes and tilting my head back slightly, allowing the sun's rays to wash over me.

The heat seeped into my skin, a pleasant contrast to the cool confines of the tent.

Vitamin D, I thought absurdly. Getting my vitamin D.

Mum was always on about that. You spend too much time inside, Joel. Go get some sun. She'd be pleased, probably, if she could see me now. Standing in the sunlight of an alien world, wearing a stranger's clothes, freshly resurrected from death.

Maybe leave out some of those details.

"It's so nice to feel the sun again," I murmured to myself, revelling in the simple yet profound pleasure of the moment.

The warmth, the light, the fresh air—they were small joys, but in my current state, they felt immensely significant.

It was a reminder of the world beyond the tent, a world I was slowly but surely reclaiming my place in.

One step at a time. One bean at a time. One moment of sunshine at a time.

The sudden sensation of fur brushing against my leg yanked me out of my sun-soaked reverie.

I flinched—couldn't help it. After days of limited sensory input, unexpected touch still startled me.

Turning, I saw a golden retriever panting eagerly, its wagging tail a blur of motion.

Where the hell did you come from?

The dog was gorgeous. Classic golden, the kind you saw in dog food commercials and family photographs. Clean coat, bright eyes, tongue lolling out in that dopey way retrievers had.

"Lois, down!" Glenda's voice cut through the air as she came closer.

But before she could reach us, I crouched down to greet the dog.

The movement was risky—my legs weren't entirely trustworthy yet—but I managed it. Wrapping my arms around Lois, I let my fingers sink into her soft, clean fur, a stark contrast to my recent state of unkemptness.

She smells better than I do. That's embarrassing.

As Lois attempted a more enthusiastic, slobbery greeting, I pulled back, laughing at her eagerness.

The laugh surprised me. Actual laughter. The sound came out rough, damaged by my throat's condition, but it was real. I was laughing at a dog's attempt to lick my face.

Still alive enough to laugh. That's something.

"Seems she likes you," Glenda commented with a broad smile.

I returned her smile, finding it contagious.

My gaze shifted to Jamie, who had just arrived at the scene. There was a look of pride on his face, a rare display of emotion that warmed me more than the sun's rays.

Pride. He's proud of me.

For what? Standing up? Petting a dog? Surviving another morning?

It didn't matter. The expression on his face—that open, unguarded pride—was something I'd never seen directed at me before. Not from a father. Not from the man who was supposed to have that role.

Duke, ever cautious, approached Lois with a mixture of curiosity and reservation.

He circled around us, sniffing the air, his movements slow and deliberate. The little Shih Tzu was conducting a thorough investigation, treating this new canine arrival with the same suspicion he might apply to an unexpected package on a delivery route.

Lois, taken aback by Duke's inspection, jumped backward playfully, her tail still wagging with excitement.

She thinks he wants to play. He thinks she might be a threat. Classic miscommunication.

Watching the scene, I couldn't help but chuckle.

Duke's careful assessment of Lois was in stark contrast to Henri's more cautious nature.

Tail tucked, Henri made a quick dash for the safety of the tent, vanishing inside.

Smart dog. When in doubt, retreat to familiar territory.

Lois, meanwhile, bounded around us, a bundle of energy and joy. The interaction was a light-hearted moment in the midst of everything else.

Dogs didn't care about inter-dimensional travel or resurrection or mysterious voices claiming ownership of your soul. Dogs cared about other dogs, and belly rubs, and whether there might be food involved.

Simpler priorities. Better priorities, maybe.

Paul's declaration about needing a road captured my full attention.

His arrival, marked by a determined stride down the final slope to the camp, underscored the practical challenges we faced in this remote location.

A road. They need a road.

The camp, I was realising, was less 'established settlement' and more 'people dumped in the middle of nowhere trying to figure things out.' There was no infrastructure. No roads, no buildings, no water supply beyond the lagoon that had brought me back from death.

Just tents and dust and people making it up as they went along.

The jingle of keys filled the air as Paul tossed them to Glenda, who caught them effortlessly.

Crouching down to greet Lois, Paul's affection for the golden retriever was evident.

"Ooh, you're a gorgeous girl," he cooed, thoroughly engaged in scratching her head.

Everyone loves Lois. Can't blame them.

Glenda, holding the keys aloft, seemed surprised.

"My car's here?" she inquired, her tone a mixture of disbelief and curiosity.

Car?

The word hit me strangely. Cars belonged to Earth. To roads and traffic lights and petrol stations. The idea that someone had brought a car here—through the Portal, presumably—seemed almost absurd.

"Yeah," Paul responded, his attention still firmly on Lois. "It got bogged just over the hill."

Of course it did.

This place was dust and sand and soft ground that would swallow anything with wheels. I'd seen enough bogged trucks in my delivery days to recognise a losing battle when I heard about one.

I observed the scene, my interest piqued.

The camp, with its few tents and modest campfire, nestled amidst the undulating landscape of dust and rocks, suddenly seemed more isolated than I had realised.

Jamie had revealed very little about this place, and I felt a growing curiosity about our surroundings.

Where exactly are we? How big is this world? Are there other people out there, beyond these dunes?

Questions I hadn't thought to ask while lying on my back counting canvas seams. Questions that suddenly seemed important.

"We definitely need a road," Kain chimed in with a laugh.

I remembered him now—Jamie's nephew. The construction apprentice with the athletic build and easy confidence. His light-heartedness brought a sense of normality to the camp.

"I wouldn't be laughing if I were you," Paul admonished, his animated face and active hands giving me a small amount of amusement. "You wanna be the one to collect the stuff in it or dig it out of the dust?"

Fair point.

Digging a car out of soft ground was brutal work. I'd helped with bogged delivery trucks twice—both times ending up covered in mud, exhausted, and questioning my career choices.

Glenda, with a huff of exasperation, started walking away, Lois and Duke trailing her.

"Honestly. This camp is like living with a bunch of children sometimes."

"I don't think she's got any children," Jamie joked, as he, Paul and Kain started to follow Glenda.

"I heard that!" Glenda shot back, her voice carrying over the distance as she marched on.

I couldn't help but chuckle softly at the banter.

This small community, with its quirks and challenges, was a world unto itself. The interactions between its members, mundane yet filled with subtle complexities, were far more engaging than the endless hours I had spent confined to a mattress.

They're a family, I realised. A weird, dysfunctional, thrown-together family. Like the ones you get at workplaces when you spend too much time together.

It was a welcome distraction, a glimpse into the daily life at the camp, and a reminder that there was a world outside my tent waiting to be explored and understood.

As the small group vanished over the crest of the first dune, becoming mere specks against the vast, sandy horizon, I lingered behind, feeling a deep sense of reluctance.

Go with them? Stay here?

My body wanted to rest. My mind wanted to see. The two impulses pulled in opposite directions like magnetic poles.

My turn to the tent was unhurried, almost reluctant.

With each step, the fine, warm sand shifted under my feet, reminding me of the vast desert that surrounded us.

The sand was different from beach sand. Finer. Almost powdery. It got between my toes, clung to my skin, seemed to infiltrate everything.

Mars, I thought again. This is what Mars must be like. Red dust everywhere, getting into everything, no escape from it.

As I approached the tent, its dark entrance loomed like a gaping mouth, ready to swallow me whole.

I paused, my heart heavy, the very thought of returning to that lonely mattress filling me with a sense of dread.

I can't. Not yet. I can't go back in there and lie down and stare at nothing while everyone else is out doing things.

With a heavy sigh that seemed to carry the weight of my world, I hesitated.

My body still throbbed with a dull ache, a stark reminder of the recent turmoil.

However, there was a certain relief in the feeling of clean clothes against my skin, and the fresh, albeit hot, desert air was a welcome change from the stale atmosphere inside the tent.

Jamie's clothes. Not mine. But better than nothing.

The fabric of the tent whispered secrets as I gently poked my head inside, my eyes quickly adjusting to the dim, muted light that filtered through the canvas.

Inside, Henri lay sprawled in his small bed, a picture of contentment.

His grunt, deep and satisfied, echoed softly in the confined space, bringing a wry smile to my face.

You've got the right idea, mate. Stay here where it's cool. Don't follow the humans on their adventures.

"If you insist," I whispered to him, a lightness in my tone that hadn't been there moments before.

His approval, imagined or not, validated the sudden decision that had sparked in my mind.

Go. See the bogged car. Be part of something.

Watching Henri's furry head rest back atop his front paws, a symbol of serene trust, I felt a sense of purpose.

With a renewed resolve, I backed out of the tent, leaving the shadows behind.

Outside, the soft, sun-warmed dust caressed my bare feet, a stark contrast to the cool interior of the tent.

I followed the trail left by Glenda and the others, their footprints a series of stories etched in the sand.

Each set of prints told something about its owner. Glenda's neat and purposeful. Kain’s slightly splayed. Paul’s large and deep, the prints of someone who moved with confidence.

Tracking. Like the Aboriginal guides in documentaries. Reading the land.

Careful not to overexert my still-recovering body, I maintained a slow, steady pace.

Memories of my recent fall haunted me, and I had no desire to experience the jarring pain of another tumble down a dusty slope.

One step at a time. Test each foothold. Don't rush.

The dunes rose and fell around me like frozen waves, their crests sharp against the endless blue sky.

As I crested a small rise, a scene of commotion unfolded before me.

It was just as Paul had described in his animated recount.

There, amidst a flurry of activity, sat a charcoal BMW.

A BMW. In another dimension. Of course.

Once a symbol of sleek sophistication, its exterior was now marred by a fine layer of ochre dust, as if the desert was claiming it as its own.

The car sat idly, its rear wheels hopelessly bogged, sunk deep into the unforgiving sand.

That's not coming out without serious effort.

I'd seen this before. Delivery trucks stuck in paddocks after taking wrong turns. The desperate spinning of wheels that only dug you deeper. The eventual acceptance that you'd need a tow, or a lot of shovels, or both.

The sight brought a mix of emotions; frustration at our predicament, yet a sense of camaraderie in the shared challenge.

We've all got problems here. At least this one has a solution. Dig, push, problem solved. If only everything was that straightforward.

"Joel!" Jamie's voice cut through the desert air, tinged with a blend of surprise and concern, as he hastened toward me.

His figure, blurred against the backdrop of undulating dunes, grew clearer with each stride.

Here we go. The overprotective father routine.

"What are you doing here?"

The question carried weight. Not accusation, exactly, but something close to it. The tone of a parent who'd told a child to stay in bed and found them climbing trees.

My reply was a mere whisper, a croak really, as if each word was a battle against the dry, scratchy desert that had taken residence in my throat.

"Help," I managed to say, my voice barely audible.

Jamie's eyes widened, his movements becoming more frantic.

"You need help?" He asked, his tone laced with panic.

In a flurry of motion, he started waving towards Glenda, signalling her over with hurried gestures.

No, no, no. That's not what I meant.

I couldn't help but smile gently at Jamie's evident concern, though it was tinged with a sense of irony.

With a gentle shake of my head, I clarified, "Help," and pointed towards the troubled car.

I want to help. Not get help. Different things.

I yearned to offer more words, to provide Jamie with a clearer explanation, but the dry, scratchy sensation in my throat served as a stern warning against further speech.

One word at a time. Make each one count.

Jamie's expression shifted to one of relief, though his concern remained evident.

He placed his hands on his hips, a stance that seemed to exude both relief and lingering worry.

"I don't think that's a good idea. You should be resting," he advised, his hands moving from his hips to my shoulders, gently but firmly attempting to steer me back towards the tent.

Of course. Back to the mattress. Back to counting canvas seams and listening to voices in my head.

It was at this moment that Glenda intervened, brushing Jamie's hands aside with a determined grace.

"Here, take this," she said, thrusting a large, fluffy pillow into my waiting hands.

A pillow?

Her voice carried a note of authority, mixed with a hint of compassion.

"As long as you are careful, I think some movement will be beneficial."

Thank you, Glenda. Someone who understands.

Jamie turned back to me, his expression now a mix of seriousness and concern, his forehead creasing with worry.

"Are you sure you can manage?" he questioned, his voice revealing the depth of his concern.

In response, I simply nodded, a silent gesture of gratitude towards Glenda for her understanding and support, and a silent plea for Jamie to relax his overprotective stance.

Inside, I reflected on Jamie's behaviour.

It's not that I don't appreciate having a father's attention.

I mused, recognising the complexity of our relationship.

Jamie was more than just another man in my life, yet the unfamiliarity between us lingered like a shadow, a reminder of the distance yet to be bridged.

He's trying. He's trying to be a father. He just doesn't know how, and I don't know how to be a son. Not his son, anyway.

"This must mean that Luke has spoken with Pierre!" Glenda's voice, laced with a mix of excitement and realisation, cut through the still desert air.

She carefully rested a small instrument case on the bonnet of the car, treating it with a reverence that spoke volumes of its contents.

Pierre?

A sudden twinge of fear clenched my chest as I realised that, in my distracted state, I hadn't even noticed Glenda stepping away and then returning with her prized possession.

Are my senses still sub-par?

I questioned myself silently, a hint of concern threading through my thoughts.

I'd missed her leaving. Missed her coming back. The world was happening around me and I was only catching half of it, like watching a film with scenes cut out at random.

I watched Glenda with heightened curiosity, her every move seeming to tell a story.

"Your husband?" Jamie inquired, stepping closer to Glenda, his voice carrying a blend of interest and politeness.

Husband. Of course. Glenda has a life back on Earth. A husband named Pierre. A home. A career. All of it left behind.

"Yes," Glenda replied, her voice softening as she slowly opened the case. "I miss him terribly already."

Her words were simple, yet they echoed with the depth of her longing.

I felt a frown crease my forehead as thoughts of my mother unexpectedly surged to the forefront of my mind.

Mum.

She would be very worried by now.

The parallel of our situations—Glenda missing her husband and my own separation from my mother—wasn't lost on me.

It stirred a blend of empathy and personal anxiety within me.

Three days. Maybe four. She'll have called the depot by now. Called the police. Called everyone she can think of.

"How does your violin imply that?" Jamie's question snapped me back to the present moment.

He seemed genuinely puzzled, his brows knitting together in confusion.

Violin. Right. Focus, Joel.

Glenda's expression turned serious as she replied, her tone matter-of-fact, "I highly doubt that Luke would have known to bring me my violin."

Her words carried a weight of certainty.

Fair point. Unless you tell someone about your prized possessions, they don't know to pack them.

"You'd be surprised," Jamie retorted, his voice tinged with a hint of playful challenge.

Carefully, with the tender touch of someone handling a precious relic, Glenda secured her violin back into its case.

The soft click of the latch seemed to echo in the stillness of the desert air as she asked, "Where's Kain?"

Her eyes scanned the horizon, perhaps hoping to catch a glimpse of him.

"He went to the Drop Zone to see..." Jamie's voice trailed off, but my mind had already drifted away, caught in the undercurrent of my own troubled thoughts.

Drop Zone. What's the Drop Zone? Where things arrive from Earth?

But the question faded before I could pursue it.

The image of my mother, vivid and unsettling, materialised in my mind's eye.

Sleepless nights spent in worry. A face marred by tears. The looming spectre of financial trouble that would inevitably arise with each missed pay.

The rent. The power bill. The food.

I was the main income. Mum's few shifts barely covered half of what we needed to survive, and my courier wages made up the difference.

Without me, she was in trouble.

A frown etched itself onto my face as I confronted the harsh realisation that, despite the trauma I had faced in the last few days, my mother's ordeal was just beginning.

I've been lying on a mattress worrying about my throat while she's probably sitting in the dark because the power's been cut off.

The thought was unbearable.

There must be something that I can do to help her, I silently urged myself, a determination simmering beneath the surface of my helplessness.

Luke can travel between worlds. He's bringing clothes. Could he bring money? Could he pay her rent? Could he—

The thoughts spiralled, each one more desperate than the last.

Pushing away the increasing sense of frustration and powerlessness, I steered my thoughts towards what I could do in the present moment.

Help with the car. Be useful. One thing at a time.

Eager to keep moving and distract my mind, I waved the pillow at the talkative group, my voice croaking out the word, "Help."

The effect of my interruption was immediate; the chattering ceased as all eyes turned towards me.

It was as if my single word had cast a spell of silence over the group.

Yeah, I'm still here. Still wanting to contribute. Still capable of carrying a pillow, at least.

"Right. Of course," Jamie responded, a small, understanding smile briefly tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He then poked his head into the backseat of the car, his actions suggesting a readiness to assist.

Arms laden with Glenda's belongings, the three of us began our trek back to camp.

Each step was a conscious effort, a balance between my desire to be useful and the lingering weakness in my body.

The pillow wasn't heavy. But my arms felt like they were carrying lead weights, and my legs protested each step like they were wading through treacle.

Pathetic. Can't even carry a pillow without getting tired.

But I was doing it. Moving. Contributing. Being part of something.

The desert around us was a tapestry of shifting sands and soft hues, indifferent to the small struggles and triumphs of our little group.

The colours were beautiful, in their way. Ochre and rust and amber, blending into each other like watercolours on wet paper. If I'd had my phone, I might have taken a picture. Sent it to Mum.

Look where I ended up. Alien sunset. Wish you were here.

But my phone was back on Earth, probably still sitting in the truck, battery dead, full of messages I'd never read.

The camp appeared over the final rise, its handful of tents looking almost welcoming against the vast emptiness.

Not home. Not yet. Maybe not ever.