Circle of Light

“Sometimes all it takes is one square of light and the right dog to remind you: you’re not alone in the dark.”

The abrupt rustling at the tent's entrance sent a sharp spike of adrenaline surging through my veins, a visceral jolt that set every nerve alight. My breath caught mid-inhale, my body tensing with the immediacy of instinct—fight, flee, freeze. In the enveloping dark, even a whisper of movement could carry the weight of a predator’s intent.

In a reflexive, albeit clumsy, attempt to face the unknown, I spun too quickly on the uneven surface of the tent’s floor. My foot caught on a fold in the canvas beneath me, and I tumbled backwards with graceless inevitability. The impact rattled through my bones—a dull, heavy thud that reverberated up my spine. Pain lanced through my shoulder, but it was nothing compared to the surge of fear now clawing its way up my throat.

For a breathless moment, I lay there sprawled and disoriented, my palms scraping against the cold, coarse fabric of the groundsheet. The familiar scent of blood and antiseptic clung to the air, mixing with something older, something feral—an earthy, animal musk that did not belong. My heart pounded an erratic rhythm, wild and unrelenting, as I struggled to orient myself in the oppressive dark.

Scrambling upright onto all fours, I fought to reclaim some semblance of control, though every muscle in my body screamed retreat. The tent walls closed in, shrinking with each passing heartbeat, the shadows deepening into something almost sentient. I could sense—more than see—it. A presence at the threshold. Watching. Breathing.

The creature advanced.

I didn’t need to see its eyes to know they were locked on me. I could feel them—like cold needles pressing into my skin, studying, judging, deciding. The air itself grew thicker, the stillness charged with the electricity of an unseen storm. I was a trespasser in its domain, and I knew it.

As it lunged forward, a silent explosion of motion, my hands shot up without thought—an instinctive, human gesture of defiance and self-preservation. But I knew. Knew with every fibre of my trembling frame that if this thing meant harm, there was nothing I could do to stop it. My raised hands were as effective as paper shields in the path of a hurricane. My mind flooded with flickering images—snapping jaws, hooked claws, pain, silence.

The knowledge of my helplessness sank like ice into my chest, constricting my breath to ragged, shallow gulps. My lungs refused to fill. My chest heaved but found no air. Every heartbeat screamed in my ears.

And still… I held my ground.

Because sometimes, terror doesn’t give you the choice to run.

It only lets you brace for impact.

Then, unexpectedly, the harshness of the situation melted away—not with a crash or cry, but with the rough, wet sensation of a tongue sliding across my cheek. The contact was so startling, so utterly mundane, that it took my brain a moment to recalibrate. My breath caught, lodged somewhere between a sob and a laugh, the sheer absurdity of the moment breaking through the paralysing grip of fear.

The creature—no, not a creature—paused, then retreated slightly. Its breathing was loud in the tight space, heavy and unhurried, like a bellows easing after a forge has cooled. Each puff of warm air felt like proof: I was not prey. I was not alone.

Tentatively, still half-expecting teeth or claws to follow, I parted the fingers shielding my eyes. My lashes blinked away the sting of near-tears as I dared a glance.

Relief didn’t come in a slow trickle—it crashed over me in an overwhelming wave, sudden and engulfing, the kind that leaves you trembling in its wake. There, in the dim shadows, her golden fur catching what little light there was, stood Lois. Tail wagging in frantic loops, tongue lolling happily, her expression somehow both apologetic and triumphant. The panting wasn’t just exertion—it was emotion. Recognition. Relief.

"Lois!" The name escaped me on a shaky breath, almost a sob. The tension drained from my body all at once, like a string pulled too tight finally snapping. I slumped forward into her waiting form, arms wrapping instinctively around her neck. Her fur was dusty, her body warm and solid beneath my grasp—real in the way nightmares never are.

I buried my face against her, breathing her in—earth, sweat, dust, dog—and let the terror recede.

She responded with another barrage of slobbery affection, rough kisses plastering my cheeks and jaw, her enthusiasm untempered by the drama of moments past. I let out a laugh, short and breathless, not quite believing the fear that had gripped me just moments before.

A faint smile crept across my lips, worn but sincere. Amidst all the unknowns, the dangers, the confusion—this moment, this creature of loyalty and fur and fierce devotion, had found me again.

And for that single, fleeting heartbeat… I felt safe.

"Will this do?" Chris's voice cut through, a beacon of hope in the form of a simple question. He stepped into the tent, the smartphone in his hand glowing like a modern-day torch against the canvas backdrop. The soft, sterile glow from the screen threw elongated shadows on the fabric walls, its presence almost magical in the context of our crude surroundings. It was a stark contrast to the primitive solution we had dreaded to employ, and in that moment, the sight of it seemed almost revolutionary.

Relief burst in my chest like a dam breaking. A wave of renewed optimism surged through me, invigorating my weary limbs with a jolt of adrenaline that I hadn’t realised I still possessed. The tension in my shoulders slackened a notch. "It's better than a fire," I responded, my voice laced with a relief that was as palpable as the cool night air now sneaking through the tent’s seams.

Chris’s face, round and stubbled, lit from below by the phone’s glow, broke into a soft smile—small, yet unmistakably genuine. It was the kind of smile born not from comfort, but from the temporary lifting of a weight too heavy to carry alone. A shared exhale, wordless but felt.

Without further delay, I moved into action, the clarity of purpose replacing fatigue. I laid out my instruments with deliberate care, each metal tool catching the smartphone’s light and reflecting it in sharp glints across Kain’s bloodied thigh. No longer was I fumbling in the dark—this light, this small square of glowing glass, had become our surgical lamp, our beacon. Chris, now the anchor holding that lifeline steady, was no longer just a presence—he was an essential part of the team, his hand a stabiliser not just for the light, but for me.

Even Lois seemed to understand. She didn’t whine or nudge or interfere. She simply sat, alert and unwavering, her flank pressed against the canvas wall as though holding it up with the force of her will alone. Her eyes tracked my movements, unwavering, protective. There was something unspoken in her stillness—an acknowledgement, perhaps, of what we stood to lose if this went wrong.

Together—Chris, Lois, and I—we became a makeshift triage unit, bound not by training or protocol, but by the raw necessity of the moment. As my hands hovered over Kain’s leg, poised between damage and recovery, it struck me that we weren’t just fighting to save a limb. We were fighting to preserve a fragile sense of control, of order, in a world that had, once again, spiralled into chaos.

And in that small, sacred circle of light, we fought.