Cautious Optimism

“Some wounds don’t need stitches—they need faith, soaked in river water and bound by guesswork.”

With a heavy, reluctant breath, I rose and walked beside Paul, our silence laced with mutual unease. Neither of us spoke, yet the air between us brimmed with unspoken questions, fraying thoughts hanging loosely like threads in the wind.

We’d barely crested the first gently sloping hill when something unusual caught my eye—an inconsistency in Paul’s movement. Subtle, but telling. His arm... it wasn’t right. A stiffness in the way he carried it. A discolouration, just visible beneath his rolled sleeve. My instincts, always sharp, flared into action.

I stopped abruptly, eyes narrowing. "What's wrong with your arm?" My voice cut through the stillness, sharp with concern.

Paul jerked slightly, turning his body as if to shield the limb from my view. "Oh, it's nothing," he said, too quickly. The dismissiveness in his tone rang false, its flimsiness only deepening my unease.

Without waiting for permission, I reached across him and grasped his forearm, holding it steady despite his half-hearted resistance. My eyes fell on the darkened flesh—angry, swollen skin surrounding three puncture marks. They looked deep, and something about them felt wrong. Unnatural.

"This doesn't look like nothing," I said firmly, my voice infused with clinical gravity. My fingers hovered over the wound, careful not to touch but mapping its spread with my gaze. The skin had begun to mottle, a sickly hue spidering outward like ink in water.

"Tell me what happened." I locked eyes with him. There was no room for half-truths now.

He hesitated. I could see the muscles in his jaw tighten before he answered. "Joel dug his fingernails into my arm when he first… woke up." The disbelief still lingered in his voice, as though saying it aloud might finally make it make sense.

"That was when you screamed?" I pressed, already knowing the answer.

Paul’s face flushed with embarrassment, his shoulders stiffening. "Yeah," he admitted softly.

I stepped back slightly, mentally running through what I knew, what I thought I knew. Joel had been clinically dead—by every measure available to me. Yet somehow, he’d moved. Grasped. Injured. And now Paul was showing signs of a reaction I couldn’t explain—rapidly spreading necrosis? An aggressive infection? A toxin? No, it was progressing too quickly.

The resemblance to Jamie’s earlier wound slammed into me with full force. My breath caught.

If it’s the same thing, it’s escalating.

"Is it bad?" Paul asked, the barest tremble in his voice betraying his attempt at casualness.

"Well, it's not bloody good," I muttered, choosing blunt honesty over optimism. I wasn’t ready to share the full extent of my concern—not yet. Not until I had more than just dread and guesswork.

Paul let out a nervous chuckle, the sound brittle and strained.

"Come," I said sharply, a sudden clarity threading through the fog of uncertainty. A plan—half-formed but urgent—began to take shape in my mind. "I have an idea."

He didn’t argue. He followed, falling into step beside me with a trust that, despite everything, steadied me.

We moved swiftly across the dry terrain, our strides long and purposeful. My thoughts galloped ahead, leaping over possibilities, pulling fragments of knowledge from my medical training, my time in Borneo, scraps of studies and case reports that suddenly felt woefully inadequate.

This wasn’t just an anomaly. This was something else.

The camp came into view—a few canvas shelters under the unforgiving sun—but today it felt like more than a base. Today, it was the nearest thing we had to a research centre, a triage unit, a battleground. Somewhere I could make sense of this madness, if only by inches.

As we approached, my chest tightened—not from fear, but resolve. I didn’t have answers yet. But I had questions. And questions were where science begins.

"Wait here," I urged Paul, my voice clipped with urgency as I turned and slipped into the supply tent. The familiar scent of antiseptic and canvas greeted me like an old companion, grounding me momentarily amidst the whirlwind of thoughts. My hands moved swiftly—grabbing bandages, gauze, tape—each motion precise, almost automatic. There was no time to waste on deliberation; instinct and training propelled me.

Emerging just moments later, arms full, my mind was already two steps ahead. "We need to go back to the lagoon," I announced, the words tumbling from my lips with such finality I didn’t even glance back to see if Paul was following. My legs had already begun to move, drawn by the strange logic of this place—by instinct as much as reason.

"Glenda, wait!" Paul’s voice cut through the air like a tether, pulling me to an abrupt halt. I turned, the momentum of urgency still thrumming beneath my skin, but his expression gave me pause. There was something uncertain in his gaze—not fear, exactly, but a caution that carried weight.

"It's only a minor wound. I'm not sure we need the lagoon," he said carefully, his words shaded with both doubt and possibility.

I studied him, my brow furrowing. There was more beneath the surface—his tone, the way he wouldn’t meet my eyes. Something in his body language told me he was testing the water, no pun intended.

"Go on," I urged, the tilt of my head coaxing him forward. I didn’t have time for drawn-out games, but I knew better than to push too hard.

He hesitated—long enough for doubt to creep in—but eventually, he relented. "Well..." The pause that followed was thick with implication.

I made a small, impatient gesture with my free hand. Out with it, Paul.

"I've already washed it in the river by the lagoon and the flesh seemed to return to normal within a few minutes. So..." His voice faded, the final thought left unsaid, but I heard it anyway. The possibility hung in the air like a suspended breath.

"…and then without the water it turned grey again," I completed for him, the words falling easily as my mind raced to slot the facts into place. A small flare of interest lit within me, pushing aside the ever-present unease. This was no ordinary infection, no simple immune response. This was something... else. Something reactive. Localised. Dependent on environment.

"Interesting." I nodded toward the river that flowed quietly behind our tents, its surface glinting in the afternoon sun. "Let's try the river water then." Controlled. Close. Safer than another pilgrimage to the lagoon.

"It can't hurt, can it?" Paul said, and I heard the hope in his voice—a fragile thread laced with disbelief, clinging to the chance that something here could be understood.

I shrugged, neither dismissive nor optimistic, merely honest. "We shall see."

Together, we turned and walked toward the river. Each step carried a strange duality: the part of me rooted in science, method, and precision... and the other, quietly surrendering to the fact that none of this made sense by Earth’s rules. We were entering new territory—part biology, part myth, part miracle.

As we approached the water’s edge, I couldn’t help but feel like a pioneer of some unspoken discipline—one where medicine met mystery, and instinct was just as crucial as evidence.

Whatever we discovered next might change everything.

We found ourselves kneeling along the riverbank, not far from the tents, the ground beneath us gritty and sun-baked. I brushed a few strands of damp hair from my face, the heat clinging to my skin like a second layer. "Go," I prompted Paul, pointing towards the water’s surface. My voice carried a strange blend of urgency and fragile hope, as if simply willing the water to work again might make it so.

The river flowed quietly before us, deceptively serene. Its glassy surface reflected the sky in broken fragments, giving no indication of the peculiar healing it might hold. It seemed laughably ordinary—and yet, I had seen too much today to dismiss anything as merely mundane.

Paul hesitated, just for a second, and then complied. He dipped his arm into the river. I watched closely, heart hammering against my ribs, but to my dismay, he withdrew it again in mere seconds.

My frown deepened, impatience and frustration tightening across my features. "That wasn't long enough," I said sharply, already reaching out. Without waiting for his permission, I grabbed his arm and pushed it back under the surface, my grip firm despite his immediate recoil.

"It's burning!" Paul shouted, the anguish in his voice rising like a flare.

He yanked against my grasp, panic radiating from every tense muscle. I didn’t let go. My jaw clenched against the twinge of guilt, against the part of me that wanted to soothe and comfort. This is for his own good, I told myself, mentally bracing against his pain.

"Wash your arm," I instructed, my tone clipped, authoritative. It was a medic’s command, void of compromise.

Paul’s eyes locked onto mine, full of pain and confusion. They reminded me, unexpectedly, of a wounded dog—wide, betrayed, and unable to understand why trust had turned to suffering. I quickly looked away, forcing myself to focus on the task rather than the emotion behind it.

He began to move his arm gently in the water, letting the flow pass over the wound. I knelt beside him, watching in silence as seconds stretched into minutes, each one thick with anticipation. Sweat beaded on the back of my neck. I didn’t blink.

And then—there it was.

The darkened, necrotic-looking tissue began to shift. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, it brightened. The sickly grey hue faded away, revealing pinkish, healing skin beneath. It wasn’t perfect, but it was undeniably… better.

I blinked hard. It’s working.

"Give me your arm," I said, my voice steadier now, low and measured. Paul extended it, water dripping in rivulets down his wrist. I unrolled the bandage with brisk efficiency and began wrapping it, my hands working on autopilot, muscles long-trained to function under pressure.

But halfway through, I stopped. A spark of inspiration flickered in the fog of my mind.

"What's wrong?" Paul asked quickly, alarm tugging at his words.

I tilted my head, weighing the idea aloud. "I'm not sure if it will make any difference, but it's worth a try."

"What is?"

Without replying, I gently unwrapped the half-set bandage, then dipped it straight into the river. The cloth darkened as it absorbed the water, growing heavier with every second. I let it soak completely, the act symbolic, somehow—ritualistic. As if the river itself were being invited into our efforts to heal.

"Ahh," Paul murmured, his breath releasing with a sound that carried surprise and subtle relief.

That was all the encouragement I needed. "It might help to keep the properties of the water on the wound for longer," I explained, a cautious optimism creeping into my voice. "If we can change the dressing whenever it completely dries out, with a bit of luck, your wound should heal fully."

A small smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. The first real one in what felt like days.

Paul shrugged in assent. "Go for it."

I re-wrapped the saturated bandage carefully, sealing it snugly around his arm. My fingers were steady now, guided by the flickering return of confidence.

"The sun is too hot," I muttered, frowning at the bright glare and the evaporating droplets on his skin. The desert heat was relentless—nature's own undoing of our efforts. "I'll have to find something to protect it. Try to keep it moist for longer."

I rubbed at my temples with both hands, the beginnings of a tension headache pulsing just above my brow. My gaze scanned the dry landscape around us—the scorched stones, the flapping tents, the too-bright sky. But what...?

The question looped endlessly in my mind. Whatever came next would demand more than medical knowledge. It would take creativity, resourcefulness, and perhaps a touch of desperation.