Drop Zones and Chicken Bones

“Sometimes survival looks like diplomacy around a fire. Other times, it’s saying no to building a road with one spoon and too much optimism.”

Paul’s sudden throat-clearing sliced through the comfortable lull that had settled around the fire. It was loud, deliberate—a sound that demanded attention and received it instantly. My gaze snapped to him, taking in the stern set of his jaw and the way his eyes moved from one person to the next, measuring us, as though weighing whether we were ready for what came next. His whole demeanour shifted the atmosphere, the easy rhythm of the meal disrupted by the gravity he exuded.

“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.”

His tone was authoritative, not unkind but resolute, as if this was not so much a suggestion as an unspoken directive. For a brief second, silence hovered like a breath held in anticipation.

“That sounds reasonable enough,” Chris chimed in, his tone characteristically light but laced with a sincere eagerness to cooperate. I felt the corner of my mouth twitch—not quite a smile. Trust Chris to be agreeable, even when it complicated matters.

“Reasonable?” I echoed, the word catching in my throat, my tone betraying the scepticism bubbling inside me. I turned my eyes to him, eyebrows raised in disbelief. Did he honestly think we had the luxury of time for scenic detours?

I felt the irritation build in my chest as I thought of all we still had to do, of the seedlings, the tent repairs, the note-taking, the endless mental checklist. “It’s a long way to walk just to check,” I muttered, frustration sharpening my voice. “I’m too busy to wander over to simply… check.”

Chris’s expression shifted, the warmth in his eyes dimming. His shoulders dipped, just slightly, the corners of his mouth twitching downward in a barely perceptible reaction. Guilt tugged at me for a fleeting moment—I hadn’t meant to wound—but I didn’t take the words back. There were times for gentleness and times for realism, and this was the latter.

“I’m with Karen on this one,” Jamie interjected, his voice slicing through the tension with unexpected solidarity. “Too busy.” He didn’t even glance up from his container, as if his declaration was as obvious as the setting sun.

I blinked at him. Surprised? Yes. Grateful? Maybe a little. Jamie was many things—acerbic, difficult, occasionally infuriating—but in this moment, he’d backed me up without hesitation. I didn’t question the alliance.

Paul’s reaction came fast and fierce. “Busy!” he barked, incredulous. His tone cracked with irritation, his gaze searing straight through Jamie. “All you’ve done is sit in the tent for the past two days!”

The accusation landed like a stone, thudding heavily in the quiet that followed. It was the kind of comment designed to provoke, and provoke it did.

“Fuck off, Paul!” Jamie’s outburst was instantaneous, his fury flaring white-hot. His hand jerked in the air with such force that a rogue piece of chicken flung from his fork, landing squarely in his lap with a faint, squelching plop.

The moment hung there—hot, volatile, ridiculous. A perfect storm of anger, exhaustion, and poultry. I could almost feel the collective intake of breath around the fire as everyone waited to see what would happen next.

The tension that lingered in the wake of Jamie’s outburst still crackled faintly in the firelit air, but a new, unexpected alliance had emerged from the conflict—one that, under the strained circumstances, seemed oddly necessary.

“Didn’t you want to be responsible for managing the Drop Zone anyway?” Luke asked Paul, his tone level and measured.

Chris, ever the olive branch, wasted no time reasserting his role as the peacekeeper. “I'm happy to wander over. It’ll be a nice break and good to see what’s there,” he offered brightly, before promptly shovelling another mouthful of food into his mouth. His enthusiasm, while sincere, felt a little tone-deaf to the exhaustion simmering beneath the surface of those of us stretched too thin.

I exhaled through my nose, a slow sigh of frustration laced with resignation. Of course he would volunteer—always the optimist, always ready to lend a hand, even when his own plate was already too full.

“You make a good Drop Zone manager,” Glenda interjected, her tone calm and considered. She glanced toward me and Jamie briefly, her words lending subtle support to our earlier objections. It was her way—firm in principle, soft in delivery.

“Well, he is shit at building things,” Kain muttered, the comment barely above a whisper, yet loud enough to ripple through the group. I stifled a snort. His dry humour cut through the tension like a hot knife through hard cheese, and for a fleeting second, I was grateful for the levity.

Without missing a beat, Glenda pivoted back to Paul, still steering the conversation with her calm, guiding hand. “I think our settlement has more chance of thriving if we each focus on our own strengths,” she offered, her voice smooth, her gaze steady. “With Luke bringing supplies through so quickly now, perhaps it would be best if the Drop Zone had a dedicated manager.”

Paul let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping slightly in defeat. He wasn’t used to being managed, I suspected. “Fine,” he said at last, his tone grudging but resigned. “I’ll be responsible for notifying people when things arrive for them and for keeping the Drop Zone in some sort of order.”

“Marvellous,” I blurted, a little too eagerly. The relief was palpable, and for a moment, I allowed myself to relish the rare feeling of resolution. My stomach gave a noisy protest, a timely reminder that while we were sorting out the logistics of survival, my chicken tikka was cooling in my lap.

“But,” Paul continued, and the hopeful stillness of the moment shattered like fragile glass underfoot. His voice was laced with fresh urgency. “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.”

I blinked, momentarily stunned by the absurdity of the suggestion. A road? My inner voice groaned. I mentally face-palmed, the image vivid. Paul was dreaming of infrastructure when we didn’t even have a second shovel. A road, with what? Our bare hands and hopeful thinking?

“That sounds fair enough,” Glenda added smoothly, ever the diplomat. She reached down to calm Lois, who had begun to twitch beside her, ever alert for another opportunity to chase something—or someone. Glenda’s voice remained level, her agreement clearly meant to keep the peace, even if the practicality of the idea was laughable.

“I can help with that,” Chris announced eagerly, hand shooting up like an overeager schoolboy. His enthusiasm was unflagging, bless him, but I felt the tension coil inside me again. This was textbook Chris—leaping heart-first into a fantasy before thinking through the logistics.

I barely resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Charming, yes. But exhausting.

“Yeah, I guess we could all pitch in,” Kain offered, less enthusiastic than Chris, but visibly trying to rally himself. His eyes swept the circle and landed briefly on mine. I met his gaze with a look I hoped conveyed a message loud and clear: I would not be joining this escapade. My skills were better spent elsewhere—and that "elsewhere" was emphatically not road-building.

“I’ll help too,” Joel added, his voice hoarse but determined. His unexpected contribution tugged gently at my conscience, stirring a flicker of guilt for my reluctance. But I reminded myself, firmly, that the group already had more volunteers than tools, and certainly more enthusiasm than capacity.

With that, I lowered my gaze to my half-eaten meal and dipped another piece of naan into the fragrant sauce, letting the rich flavours anchor me once more. This talk of roads and roles, of dust and division—it could wait. For now, the food was warm, the fire was glowing, and for a rare moment, there was unity. Fragile, yes. But real.