Don't Tell Jamie

"Loyalty becomes complicated when the people you love need opposite things from you—sometimes keeping the peace means keeping secrets."

Sitting beside Luke on the mattress, the air was thick with the residue of tension from his and Jamie's recent altercation. Luke had been rendered speechless, a rare occurrence for a man who had spent his entire life listening to voices I couldn't hear, speaking truths I couldn't verify. He sat visibly shaken by the confrontation and Jamie's subsequent rejection of his attempted help.

Watching Jamie walk off to the river to tend to his wound had left a palpable void in the camp. His absence felt like a missing tooth — you kept probing the gap with your tongue, unable to stop yourself from noticing what wasn't there. The image of that ruptured wound, weeping blood and pus, remained seared into my mind. Jamie's words echoed still: You've sentenced us to death, Luke. Welcome to the fucking nightmare.

Now, Duke was making his rounds around the tent for what seemed like the fourth time, his nose diligently mapping out his new environment with the single-minded focus that only dogs possess. Every corner received careful investigation. Every scent demanded cataloguing. He moved with purpose, as if by thoroughly understanding this strange new territory, he could somehow make it less strange. I envied him that — the ability to reduce an incomprehensible situation to a series of smells that could be memorised and mastered.

Henri, in stark contrast, had claimed a spot on the mattress with an air of finality, curling up comfortably in a corner as if he'd been doing so for years. His small body rose and fell with the rhythm of contented sleep, utterly indifferent to the fact that he was now breathing alien air on an alien world. The thought fleetingly crossed my mind that Duke would probably get along well with Charlie. They seemed like they would be fast friends, if only circumstances were different — two curious souls investigating the world together whilst their humans sorted out the mess they'd made of their lives.

But I quickly squashed the thought, echoing Jamie's earlier sentiments. As much as seeing Charlie would brighten my spirit — her black coat gleaming in the Clivilius sun, her enthusiastic bark cutting through the oppressive silence — introducing more pets to Clivilius under these conditions was far from prudent. We could barely feed ourselves. We had no veterinary supplies, no proper shelter. Bringing Charlie here would be sentencing her to the same uncertain fate we faced.

I turned my gaze to Luke, taking in his slumped posture and the distant look in his eyes. My younger brother, who had always seemed to exist half in this world and half in some other realm I couldn't access, looked more earthbound than I'd ever seen him. More human. More fragile. We've weathered many storms together — our parents' divorce, our mother's withdrawal, the strange isolation of growing up in Broken Hill with a brother who heard voices and a family that pretended everything was normal. Yet the sight of him so deeply affected was unsettling.

My forehead creased with worry lines. Luke had always been the one who seemed untouchable, wrapped in some mystical certainty that the universe was unfolding according to plan. Even when that plan involved dragging us into another dimension without our consent. To see him this despondent, so utterly devoid of his usual resilience, was disconcerting — like watching a building you'd always thought was solid reveal cracks in its foundation.

Yet, there was a part of me that knew Luke's usual nonchalance wouldn't serve us here. If he maintained a too-laid-back attitude towards our dire circumstances, the harsh reality was that our chances of survival would dramatically decrease. We needed him present. We needed him engaged. We needed him to understand that this wasn't one of his dreams, wasn't some mystical journey with a guaranteed destination. This was life and death, and death was currently winning.

"He needs a doctor, Luke," I found myself saying with a firmness that betrayed my growing concern for Jamie's well-being.

The injury was far more serious than any of us had initially realised, and it was pressing down on me with an undeniable weight. That wasn't a burn that would heal on its own. That was infection setting in. That was tissue dying. That was the kind of wound that killed people before antibiotics, and we had no antibiotics, no sterile bandages, no way to fight what was happening inside Jamie's body.

Luke paused, the silence stretching between us as he processed my words. I watched his face, trying to read the calculations happening behind those eyes that had always seen more than mine could.

"I know," he finally admitted, his voice carrying a hint of resignation. "I'll take care of it."

"How?" The question escaped me before I could temper it with tact. "Are you sure bringing another person here is the best idea?"

The risks of introducing another individual into our precarious situation were not lost on me. Another mouth to feed. Another person to shelter. Another set of needs we couldn't meet. Another witness to our incompetence, our desperation, our slow-motion disaster. Yet the alternative was watching Jamie suffer, watching infection consume him from the inside out, and that was an option I found intolerable.

Luke's stare then became challenging, as if he was ready to confront not just the question but the implications behind it. His eyes, which had been distant and defeated, sharpened with something closer to his usual intensity.

"So, you agree with Jamie, do you? You think being here is a death sentence?"

His words, sharp and probing, sought to dissect my loyalties and beliefs about our situation in Clivilius. It was a test, I realised. He was trying to determine where I stood — with him and his vision of building something in this alien world, or with Jamie and his condemnation of everything Luke had done.

"Luke, that's not what I said," I countered defensively, the tension evident in my voice as I struggled to navigate the conversation without exacerbating an already delicate situation.

My mind raced, weighing every word before it left my lips. This was the kind of conversation that could fracture what little unity we had left. One wrong phrase, one misinterpreted sentiment, and the three of us would splinter into isolated fragments, each nursing our own grievances whilst the desert slowly claimed us.

"But?" Luke pressed, his single word a prompt for me to elaborate, to reveal the depth of my concerns and perhaps, in doing so, betray a rift in our unity.

I hesitated, the weight of the decision pressing heavily on me.

Is this really a path I want to go down?

The thought of adding to Luke's burdens with my doubts was unpalatable. He was already carrying enough — the guilt of bringing us here, the responsibility for our survival, the weight of Jamie's accusation hanging around his neck like a millstone. Yet the reality of our incompetence in handling even basic tasks was undeniable. We had failed at concrete. We had failed at shelter. We were failing at the fundamental business of staying alive.

I sighed gently, a quiet resignation to the complex web of loyalties and responsibilities that bound us. The sigh felt like releasing something I'd been holding too tightly — not defeat, exactly, but acknowledgment. Acknowledgment that I couldn't be everything to everyone. That I couldn't protect Luke from hard truths and protect Jamie from suffering and protect myself from the guilt of watching both of them struggle.

I closed my eyes, seeking a moment of clarity amidst the turmoil. Behind my lids, I saw Claire's face — not angry, for once, but disappointed. The way she looked at me when I failed to be what she needed. The way she looked at me when I chose work over family, chose avoidance over confrontation, chose the easy path over the right one. I couldn't do that here. There was no easy path. There was only truth, however painful.

"Luke," I began again, my tone softer, more reflective.

"Yeah."

Luke's response came, an invitation for me to continue. His posture had shifted slightly — less defensive, more receptive. As if he sensed that what I was about to say wasn't an attack but an offering.

"We need someone with decent handyman skills. Jamie and I suck. We can't even lay a concrete slab for the shed."

My admission was both a concession to our limitations and a reluctant acknowledgment of the necessity for additional help.

"I shouldn't be surprised."

Luke's words carried a mix of humour and understanding, a brief moment of levity in an otherwise tense exchange. For a heartbeat, I glimpsed the brother I'd grown up with — the one who could find lightness in darkness, who believed in impossible things and sometimes made them possible.

My gaze met Luke's, my expression earnest.

"But don't tell Jamie I told you that," I implored, the last thing I wanted was for Jamie to feel undermined or for my words to be construed as siding against him. Jamie was already raw, already wounded in ways that went beyond the burn on his chest.

"We're struggling enough as it is. The last thing I need is for him to think that I agree with you, that we should start bringing more people here."

The complexity of my position threatened to choke me. I did think we needed help. I did think Jamie and I were out of our depth. But I also understood Jamie's fury, his sense of violation, his fear that every new arrival was another nail in the coffin of the life he'd known. Both things could be true. Both things were true. And I had to navigate between them without betraying either.

"Of course," Luke agreed. "I understand."

And I believed he did. For all his mystical abstraction, for all his failures at practical empathy, Luke understood loyalty. He understood the impossible position of loving two people who couldn't love each other. He'd been there himself — caught between our mother's withdrawal and our father's expectations, between Jamie's needs and his own vision, between the voice of Clivilius and the demands of an ordinary life.

"Thanks."

My gratitude was genuine, a small beacon of hope in the uncertainty that enveloped us. We had reached an understanding, however fragile. A secret shared. A trust extended.

"Shit."

Luke's exclamation, sharp and sudden, cut through the stillness of the moment, propelling him to his feet with an urgency that seemed out of place in our brief respite from Jamie's painful revelations. His whole body had gone tense, alert in a way that reminded me of Duke's sudden attention when he caught an unfamiliar scent.

"What?"

My question was instinctive, a reflex to his sudden change in demeanour. The eerie vibe of urgency emanating from Luke sent a tingle down my spine, a premonition that something was amiss, even as he tried to downplay it.

"Oh. It's nothing."

Luke's response came too quickly, his attempt at nonchalance not quite masking the undercurrent of concern in his voice. His eyes had that distant quality again — not the defeated distance of moments ago, but the abstracted look he got when he was listening to something I couldn't hear.

Luke and Jamie and their bloody nothings, I mused silently, a wry smile touching my lips despite the tension. Honestly, they really are as bad as each other.

Their propensity for underplaying serious matters was both infuriating and endearing, a trait that seemed to bind them even in the most trying of times. Jamie minimising a wound that was clearly infected. Luke dismissing whatever urgent signal had just pulled him to his feet. Both of them treating potentially life-threatening situations as inconveniences not worth discussing. Perhaps that's why they'd been together for so long — two people who spoke the same language of deflection.

"I'd better get going then," Luke said, his voice softer now, a hint of reluctance threading through his words as he gave Duke a quick scratch on the head. Duke's tail wagged briefly, acknowledging the attention before returning to his investigation of a particularly interesting corner. His gaze then shifted to Henri, who lay lightly snoring, blissfully unaware of the complexities surrounding him.

"Now, be good. Both of you," he instructed, the affection in his tone belying the hesitancy of his departure. There was something almost paternal in the way he looked at them — these two small lives he'd brought into this impossible situation, now dependent on us for survival.

I chuckled. Henri didn't seem the least bit concerned by his new environment. His little body rose and fell with the rhythm of uncomplicated sleep, his paws twitching occasionally as if chasing dream-rabbits across dream-fields.

If only it really were that simple. Just find a spot to get comfortable in and the rest will be taken care of.

The thought carried a weight of longing that surprised me. When had I last slept like that? When had I last felt safe enough to simply close my eyes and trust that the world would still be there when I opened them? Even before Clivilius, sleep had been a battlefield — my mind churning through business problems, marital tensions, parental anxieties. Henri's oblivious contentment felt like a rebuke to my constant vigilance.

"Take good care of them for me, won't you?" Luke's request pulled me back from my reverie, a solemn reminder of the responsibilities now resting on my shoulders.

I nodded, my agreement silent but firm. I understood the implicit trust Luke was placing in me, an acknowledgment of the challenges he faced that left little room for the care of our four-legged companions.

Luke's brow furrowed.

"I never meant for them to enter like this," he admitted, his voice laden with regret.

"I know," I responded, my words aimed at offering solace.

Leaving Henri comfortably asleep on the mattress, a picture of blissful ignorance in this chaotic new world, Duke and I trailed after Luke towards the Portal. The little dog trotted beside me with apparent contentment, his curiosity about this new environment apparently satisfied for the moment. He seemed to have accepted me as a suitable companion in Luke's absence — or perhaps he simply needed someone to follow, some direction in a world that had suddenly stopped making sense.

I understood that impulse entirely.

"Luke, wait!"

My voice echoed slightly, cutting through the silence as Luke prepared to step through the Portal.

He paused.

"Can you print us instructions for laying a concrete slab for a shed?" I asked, the request born out of our earlier conversation and the realisation of our limitations in handling even the most basic tasks of survival here. It felt absurd — asking my dimension-hopping brother to print something off the internet like we were planning a weekend DIY project. But absurdity had become our native language. We communicated in impossible things now.

"Sure thing," Luke responded, his grin a brief flash of camaraderie in the midst of our ongoing struggle.

For a moment, he looked like the brother I remembered from childhood — the one who could find adventure in the mundane, who believed the universe was fundamentally friendly even when all evidence suggested otherwise. With a final wave, he disappeared through the Portal, leaving Duke and me to face the realities of Clivilius once again.

The swirling colours collapsed in on themselves, folding back into nothing. Duke whined softly, his nose pointed toward the space where Luke had vanished, as if hoping he might reappear at any moment.

"I know, mate," I murmured, reaching down to scratch behind his ears. "I know."

Somewhere in the distance, the river whispered its endless song. Jamie was there, tending to a wound that might kill him, nursing a fury that might consume him. And I stood here with a borrowed dog and a borrowed life, trying to hold together loyalties that pulled in opposite directions, waiting for instructions on how to pour concrete in a world where the ground itself was foreign.