Dust, Airports, and Avoidance

"Some people measure distance in miles—I measure it in queues avoided."

I woke with my knees drawn tight to my chest, my spine pressed against the coarse flank of a box big enough to serve as a makeshift wall. Around me, the Drop Zone lay in disarray, a sprawl of scattered goods abandoned exactly where they’d been left, their awkward shapes catching the first thin strokes of daylight.

My neck throbbed from sleeping at the wrong angle, the muscles pulled tight and unforgiving. Every shift sent a small jolt down my spine. The grit was worse—worked deep into the lining of my jacket, scratching at my skin as if I’d been rolled across sandpaper and then left to cure overnight. Each movement released more of it, trickling down my sleeves, a thousand petty irritants clinging to me with the persistence of regret.

I hadn’t gone to camp. That much I could at least justify to myself. Crossing those hills in the dark had felt suicidal: too much open ground, every dune a spotlight, and the air so smothered with silence that each step had sounded like a declaration. Worse were the sounds that didn’t belong, those half-heard clicks and thuds that reminded me I wasn’t the only thing breathing in that desert.

No, I’d stayed here instead, scrunched up like a ball and hidden away in the Drop Zone, as if proximity to the Portal might somehow tether Maggie back to me. Foolish, maybe, but it had been enough to keep me curled tight through the night, pulse counting out the hours until the sky began to bleed pale.

The morning air was brittle, sharp-edged with cold. Each breath spilled from me in pale ribbons, twisting and unravelling into nothing before they reached my knees. I unfolded myself stiffly, joints aching in protest, and pushed upright. The ground offered no kindness. No trail. No sign. Only wind-pocked sand and the scuffed reminders of my own footprints, already blurring into anonymity.

I called her name once, my voice low, almost embarrassed by its sound against the enormity of the dawn. Predictably, the wind caught it and carried it away, answering with nothing more than a hollow sweep across the dunes.

Jarod arrived in my thoughts without invitation, slipping in as he always did, like a stain you couldn’t scrub out. Still in that basement, most likely—knee-deep in trouble of his own design. Normally the image would’ve sent me sprinting back through the Portal, braced for whatever chaos he’d manufactured this time. But Jarod never truly needed rescuing. He’d talk his way out, charm or lie or menace until doors opened. And if that failed, he’d fight his way out—fast, dirty, effective. Failing that, he’d vanish altogether, disappear into smoke until the dust had settled and he could return with that infuriating grin. I’d learnt that the hard way: I was never the saviour in his stories, only the witness who worried too much.

Even so, I knew the moment my shoes touched Earth soil I’d check my phone. Habit. Compulsion. Maybe he’d left a message. Maybe he hadn’t. And maybe I’d even send one back, if I could untangle the words you were supposed to use after leaving someone mid–gunfight, with a python slung under your arm like an unruly handbag.

I turned my gaze over the rolling hills to Bixbus. Even from this distance, the thought of it was enough to drag my shoulders lower. The campfires were dwindling in the weak, diluted light of morning, their smoke trailing off into nothing as people began to stir. I could almost hear it—the shuffle of boots against sand, the brittle coughs, the mutter of half-slept voices. And then, inevitably, the volley of questions from whoever spotted me first. Questions demanded answers, answers demanded energy, and energy meant Paul. And Paul always meant another errand with my name attached, like some unavoidable tax. I wasn’t ready to be useful yet. Better to move before he sniffed me out and decided my morning belonged to him.

Luke’s voice nudged its way back into my head, as casual as though he were leaning against my kitchen counter instead of miles and worlds away. That throwaway remark about Adelaide Airport—“find a place to register a Portal location before my flight.” He’d said it with the breezy confidence of someone who never intended to follow through. But if he had—and it was a sizeable if—it would save me the soul-draining ritual of airports the old-fashioned way. No crawling queues inching towards metal detectors. No fluorescent lighting casting everyone in shades of terminal jaundice. No bitter coffee brewed to taste of suspicion and ash.

Which meant Paul’s car could wait. If Luke had kept his word, I could step straight into the airport from here, skip the charade entirely. Dry practicality, really. The avoidance of accidental small talk with baggage handlers was merely the garnish.

Broken Hill first, then. The decision sat heavy, not dramatic, just necessary. I pushed myself upright, joints still stiff, brushing off what felt like half of Clivilius clinging to me. Sand and grit cascaded from my jacket and trousers in little showers, stubborn grains still lodged where they didn’t belong, rasping against my skin as if to remind me I’d never quite leave this place clean.

I slung my bag over one shoulder, letting the strap bite into a spot already sore, and reached for the Portal Key. My fingers closed around it like muscle memory, the faint warmth meeting my palm immediately, pulsing in quiet rhythm. That steady thrum of energy was the only reassurance the morning offered—no promises, just presence.

One last glance across the barren hills, more ritual than hope. Still no Maggie. Only the wind teasing shallow ripples into the dunes, erasing the night’s fragile traces as if she’d never been here at all. I turned back to the Portal, its faint shimmer waiting, and fixed my thoughts firmly on Broken Hill. The sky here might be all dust and shadow, but Broken Hill promised a different brand of desolation—one I could almost convince myself I preferred.