Camp Politics

“Turns out, the only thing more combustible than dry wood and butter chicken is everyone’s opinion on responsibility.”

The distinct woodiness of the smoke curled through the air, rich and earthy, rising from the blazing campfire at the centre of our modest camp. It clung to my clothes, my hair, my skin—but not unpleasantly. Instead, it wrapped itself around me like a threadbare shawl, worn but familiar, an odd sort of comfort in this new land.

I shifted slightly on my makeshift seat—a squat log wedged into the dust—which groaned under the redistribution of weight but held firm. It wasn’t comfortable, not by any stretch, but it was becoming mine, in that strange way things did when you accepted them as part of your daily rhythm.

Just forty-eight hours earlier, the idea of calling this arid, dusty expanse of land home would have felt laughable. I’d have rejected it out of hand. But something had changed—subtly, persistently. There was a force beneath the grit and dryness, something I couldn't quite name. It hummed under the surface, and it made me stay. Maybe even belong.

“Lois!” I hissed, a sharp whisper threading through the smoky haze as I reached out and tugged gently at her collar. She’d begun to rise again, ready to launch off again in search of Paul, no doubt. She paused, panting heavily, her amber eyes watching me with eager resistance.

I tugged a little firmer and patted the spot beside me. “Sit.” The word was softened by affection, but it was an order nonetheless. She relented, curling into a lazy sprawl against my legs, though I could still feel the tension in her muscles—ready to spring at the first excuse.

All day, she’d trailed after Paul like a shadow with a heartbeat. It was sweet in its way, but also mildly maddening. He didn’t seem to mind—his patience with her had been quietly remarkable—but I knew my dog. Her joy was abundant, but her awareness of boundaries... less so. One moment she was nuzzling affectionately, the next she might upend someone’s dinner in a fit of exuberance. I’d learned to read her cues—ears too alert, tail too high—and tonight, she was teetering.

A flicker of movement drew my eyes across the fire. Luke’s silhouette, solid and confident, stepped into the glow, carrying a stack of plastic containers. The rich, spiced aroma hit me before he even spoke—tomatoes, garlic, cream, a hint of fenugreek. My mouth watered, instinctively.

“Butter chicken for you?” Luke’s voice floated over the crackle of the flames, aimed at Paul. He extended one of the containers towards him, steam gently rising into the smoky dusk.

“Yeah, thanks,” Paul replied, his tone sincere. He accepted it without hesitation, as if it were a gift rather than a meal—a small mercy in a world that asked much and gave little.

Luke moved to Karen next. She was perched somewhat stiffly on a nearby log, her posture still edged with the tension of someone trying to recalibrate. She smiled politely, but her eyes stayed cautious.

“Chicken tikka?” he offered, the words casual, almost offhand, but I caught the flicker of calculation in his eyes—a man paying attention.

“How did you know?” Karen’s face lit with something close to genuine delight as she accepted the container, her fingers dancing quickly to the side to catch a rivulet of orange sauce before it could trail down.

“Lucky guess,” Luke replied, grinning. That grin—boyish, slightly smug—lit his face like a match to kindling.

“Oh my God, Lois,” I muttered under my breath, the words laced with a blend of exasperation and affection. She had slipped from beneath my hand with all the finesse of a greased eel, her excitement uncontainable. Her bum wiggled in synchrony with her tail, which thrashed the air like a frenzied metronome. In one swift move, she was at Paul’s side, nosing affectionately at his thigh, her joy written in every enthusiastic movement of her body.

“Anything is fine,” Chris chimed in, his attention flicking towards Luke as he accepted a container of food with a nod of quiet gratitude. He was clearly trying to stay engaged, but his tone held a distracted edge—his eyes drifting to where Lois had resumed her relentless campaign of affection.

“Lois, sit!” I said, more firmly this time, reaching over to grasp her collar and guide her back to my side. There was no scolding in my tone, just a steady insistence—the kind developed over years of knowing when my dog needed soft words and when she needed rules.

She resisted, just for a second, before settling back down beside me in a reluctant sprawl of limbs and wagging tail. I held her close, my fingers curled gently around her collar, like a tether both literal and emotional.

“Look, Lois, even Duke has settled,” Jamie said, his voice light but pointed. He nodded toward the little Shih Tzu, who lay between him and Joel in perfect stillness—his small head resting on his paws, his whole body a picture of serene contentment. It was as if Duke had been born knowing how to read a room.

Lois, by comparison, looked like she was vibrating just beneath her skin.

“And butter chicken for you,” Luke added, addressing Jamie with calm efficiency, still focused on his task. He handed over a container with the kind of ease that came from doing something useful—something needed.

“Thanks,” Jamie replied, his tone clipped but not unfriendly.

I bent down and pressed a kiss into Lois’s fur, just between her ears. She smelled of smoke and dust and dog—comforting and familiar. My hand drifted down her side, fingers smoothing over her ribs. “Good girl,” I whispered. A moment of calm, however fleeting, deserved to be acknowledged.

“Hey, what about Joel?” Jamie’s voice sliced through the evening’s murmur, tinged with something sharper—concern, maybe even irritation. My gaze flicked over in time to see Luke step past Joel, still balancing his armful of steaming containers.

Lois lifted her head again, ears pricking, nose twitching as she caught the scent of the food. The spices must have teased her senses just as they had mine. She let out a soft whine, more curiosity than complaint.

“I’m sorry,” Luke said, pausing in his tracks. His voice carried both genuine surprise and the faintest trace of discomfort. “I didn’t realise he could eat.”

My brow arched slightly, more out of intrigue than judgement. The dynamic between the two men had grown tauter by the minute, and now the tension seemed to hang in the air like static before a storm.

“Of course, he can fucking eat!” Jamie snapped. The anger in his voice was raw and immediate, a defensive flash that surprised even me. His eyes burned with protective urgency as he turned slightly towards Joel, shielding him with tone if not with body.

“What do you want?” Luke asked, turning to Joel now. He shifted the weight of the containers in his arms and held them out in a quiet offering, the gesture neutral but heavy with implication. In another world, it might have seemed ordinary. Here, in this world of strained resources and measured trust, it felt almost ceremonial.

Joel responded with a shrug. It was subtle, barely more than the lift of one shoulder, but it carried meaning. Not indifference—no, it was something gentler. Hesitation. Or discomfort. Or perhaps just the growing pain of rejoining a world that had changed in his absence.

I watched, silent, caught between the flicker of emotions playing across the firelit faces around me. The flames threw shifting shadows that danced over their expressions—Jamie’s tight-lipped protectiveness, Luke’s measured awkwardness, Joel’s hesitant composure. This wasn’t just about food.

It was about inclusion. Control. Power.

And whether we liked it or not, Clivilius had a way of reshaping all of it—bending old dynamics into strange, unfamiliar shapes. Authority didn’t behave here the way it did back home. And neither did care.

To be honest, I found myself suspended between scepticism and hope. Joel’s condition had left him brittle and nearly voiceless, a shadow of whatever strength he might have had before arriving. The idea of him participating in something so mundanely human as dinner felt oddly fragile, like testing a bridge before knowing if it could hold weight. And yet, here we were—contemplating it, normalising it.

Keeping Lois close with one hand gently resting on her collar, I continued to watch. A part of me had slipped instinctively into clinical mode—silent analysis unfolding beneath the surface of my gaze. Breathing patterns, posture, orientation—all those subtle cues that, taken together, offered insight. Observation was second nature by now, but this felt different. There was more at stake than diagnosis. This wasn’t just academic.

It was a lifeline.

A lifeline to understanding Joel, to understanding this place, and to re-learning how we adapt—not just physically, but emotionally. What healed us here might look nothing like what worked back home.

“Beef madras okay?” Luke’s voice drew my attention again. His eyes were locked on the container in his hands, his tone calm, but I could see the subtle rigidity in his shoulders. As though he understood the gravity of the offer, even if he didn’t articulate it. The question was simple—but it carried weight.

“Sure,” Joel rasped, the word scarcely louder than the crackle of the fire. But it landed with quiet significance.

He was participating. Choosing. And in this world, even the smallest act of agency was a quiet revolution.

“I don’t really like anything too spicy,” I said as Luke turned towards me, his steps deliberate across the uneven earth. The warmth from the container he held drifted towards me before I’d even touched it—an invitation, almost. The scent had a kind of magnetic pull.

“Looks like butter chicken it is for you, too,” Luke replied with a smile, the kind that didn’t try too hard but still warmed the air between us. He handed me the container, the plastic soft with heat against my palms. “Good thing that’s what I got the most of.”

“You really can’t go wrong with a good butter chicken,” Kain added from somewhere to my right, his voice relaxed, underscored with an almost boyish satisfaction. His words hung there for a beat, and I realised we were all, in our own quiet ways, allowing ourselves a brief reprieve—one built not on certainty, but on flavour, warmth, and the deeply human need for comfort.

“You can have the last one then,” Luke declared, handing the final container to Kain before finally settling himself with his own. The way he sat—cross-legged and loose-shouldered—suggested a man trying, at least for this meal, to belong to the moment.

I peeled back the lid of my container, and the scent that escaped enveloped me instantly. Rich, creamy tomato, the sharp tang of spice mellowed by yoghurt and butter. It filled my nose, coated my tongue in anticipation. Smells delicious! The thought rose like a small, internal cheer.

Lois, of course, lifted her head the moment the aroma hit the air. Her eyes widened, brown and pleading, her nose twitching furiously as she leaned forward just slightly—hope incarnate in golden fur.

“Sorry, not for you,” I murmured down to her, offering a wry smile as I placed a kiss on her head. She gave a soft huff of disappointment but stayed put, bless her. For now.

As I looked around—at Joel quietly eating, Jamie’s watchful eye softening, Kain already mid-mouthful—I felt something faint but unmistakable stir inside me. Not quite contentment.

But maybe... something close to peace.

Paul’s throat clearing cut sharply through the gentle rhythm of clinking utensils and murmured conversation. The sound was abrupt, deliberate—a scalpel slicing through the soft flesh of our firelit reprieve. Instinctively, the camp quietened. Forks hovered mid-air. Eyes turned.

He stood with the subtle stiffness of someone preparing to deliver more than a casual remark. Even his silhouette seemed to lengthen in the firelight, casting authority in flickering gold across the dust.

“I need everyone to check in at the Drop Zone regularly to see whether Luke has brought any of your belongings. Or perhaps there might be something there that you find you need.”

A simple statement. Direct. Practical. But in this place, even simplicity could feel like pressure.

“That sounds reasonable enough,” Chris offered, nodding once. His tone was calm, his agreement uncomplicated, as though the logic of the request sat comfortably in his worldview. And perhaps it did—routine, order, process. It made sense to him.

“Reasonable?” Karen turned sharply towards her husband, her eyes narrowing, disbelief colouring her tone. “It’s a long way to walk just to check. I’m too busy to wander over to simply... check.”

Her words hung in the air, thin and rigid. I could see the weariness behind them, and something else—resistance, perhaps. Not just to the task, but to the unspoken assumptions beneath it.

I was about to speak, to mediate perhaps, or at least offer a bridge between perspectives. But Jamie was quicker.

“I’m with Karen on this one,” he said, his voice cutting through the tension with the weight of his own irritation. “Too busy.”

“Busy!” Paul’s reply came like a crack of thunder, the sharpest edge we’d heard from him yet. His composure wavered for a moment, the frustration he'd kept tucked away now flashing into view. “All you’ve done is sit in the tent for the past two days!”

Jamie’s fork clattered against his enamel plate as he shot upright in his seat, his movement jarring. “Fuck off, Paul!” he snapped, the words flaring like dry kindling to a flame. A piece of chicken fell from his fork onto his lap, unnoticed, punctuating the outburst with something almost absurd.

The fire crackled between them, its warmth suddenly feeling much too hot.

Chris, unbothered by the rising heat, continued eating with unshaken grace. He lifted his head only slightly, his voice even, almost conversational. “I’m happy to wander over. It’ll be a nice break and good to see what’s there.”

I watched the scene unfold from my place beside Lois, her head still nestled against my shin, oblivious to the human unrest. The exchange stirred a swirl of thoughts in me, the conversation replaying in fragments as I studied each of their faces—the frustration, the exhaustion, the quiet resignation.

This wasn’t just a disagreement over a walk to the Drop Zone.

It was a snapshot of us—each of us trying to stake out some semblance of control in a place that defied it. A clash of coping mechanisms. Paul’s desire for structure, Jamie’s simmering grief, Karen’s need for autonomy, Chris’s quiet pragmatism. Even the simple act of fetching belongings had become symbolic—of what we valued, what we resisted, what we feared.

The friction, though uncomfortable, wasn’t chaos. It was the sound of people rebalancing, recalibrating. Learning how to live together, even when we didn’t quite know what living meant anymore.

Seizing the moment, I felt compelled to affirm Paul’s contribution—not just for his sake, but for the cohesion of the group. “You make a good Drop Zone Manager, Paul,” I said, my tone deliberately warm. The words carried more weight than the title suggested; they were a gesture towards unity, a recognition that roles mattered, however informally they’d emerged.

Kain couldn’t help himself. “Well, he is shit at building things,” he muttered, his voice just low enough to suggest mischief but not quite low enough to avoid notice. The jab landed awkwardly, stirring a ripple of unease through the warm air.

The silence that followed was brief but telling, like the air holding its breath.

I took the pause to redirect the energy. “I think our settlement has more chance of thriving if we each focus on our strengths,” I said, my eyes catching Kain’s with a glance that held a quiet reprimand. He avoided my gaze, his attention suddenly very fixed on his food, the flicker of guilt passing quickly across his face.

At my feet, Lois stirred—perhaps sensing the tension or just following the scent of whatever remained on my plate. Her nose nudged insistently at the container in my lap until I gently steered her away with the back of my hand. Her tail wagged unperturbed, and after a brief moment of hesitation, she trotted off toward Duke, clearly deciding he was the next best option for entertainment.

She’d done well today. I watched her for a moment—her playful lunge, the way Duke responded with a little yip and a darting shuffle. They circled each other, the game beginning. It made sense to let them burn off whatever energy they had left before nightfall. The thought brought me back to how unexpectedly she’d arrived here. Just like everything else in Clivilius—unforeseen, uninvited, yet somehow exactly what was needed.

I turned back to the matter at hand, leaning slightly towards Paul, grounding my tone. “With Luke bringing supplies through so quickly now, perhaps it would be best if the Drop Zone had a dedicated manager.” The job might sound minor, even laughable to some, but in truth, it was foundational—one of the quiet roles that held a fragile structure together.

Paul exhaled through his nose—one of those long, deliberate breaths that marked resignation edged with acceptance. “Fine,” he said, his voice steady. “I’ll be responsible for notifying people when things arrive for them and for keeping the Drop Zone in some sort of order.”

From Karen came an immediate, almost effervescent, “Marvellous!” Her face lit with enthusiasm, eyes catching the firelight. There was something unguarded in her tone, perhaps a little too enthusiastic, as though she’d been hoping someone—anyone—might start to take charge of the chaos.

“But—” Paul’s interjection came with a measured drawl, the kind of preface that warned you to expect something practical and unavoidable. “If I am going to be going back and forth so often, we need to do something about this bloody dust! We need to build a road.”

He wasn’t wrong. His frustration mirrored my own memory—how the dust clung to everything, how it swallowed tyres and expectations in equal measure.

“That sounds fair enough,” I said, nodding, the vivid recollection of digging out my BMW still clinging like red clay in the corners of my mind. The idea of doing that trek more than once was, frankly, grim.

“I can help with that,” Chris volunteered, his hand raising instinctively, his face open and ready. There was a quiet pride in him—a man who didn’t just offer assistance, but followed through.

“Yeah, I guess we could all pitch in,” Kain added, his voice balancing reluctance and resolve like two mismatched stones in either hand. He glanced around the group, clearly hoping for some sign of shared burden. We gave it silently.

“I’ll help too,” came Joel’s voice. It was still raspy, still delicate, but carried the strength of someone beginning to reinhabit his place in the world.

The consensus took shape not through votes or declarations, but through tone and posture. It was telling, how swiftly people signed up once the road was something that would serve them all. Was it guilt? Pragmatism? A sense of responsibility finally budding under this strange sky? I couldn’t say. Probably all three.

Draining the last remnants of sauce from my container, I gave myself a small, unspoken reward—a final, satisfied slurp. I could hear my mother’s voice in my head, ever practical and sharp: Never let a good sauce go to waste. She’d say it with a wink and a wooden spoon in hand, sauce bubbling on the stove. I smiled faintly as the last warm mouthful hit my tongue.

The slurping echoed in the now-quiet circle. Not rude. Not awkward. Just real. Just human.

Even here, even now.