Everyone But Duke

"The universe has a peculiar sense of humour—give a man a son who can barely speak, then surround them with people who won't stop talking."

The night's chill had seeped into every corner of the tent, turning the canvas walls into membranes that transmitted cold rather than blocked it.

Duke had burrowed closer sometime in the darkness, seeking warmth beneath my arm with the single-minded determination of a creature who'd decided my body heat belonged to him. His paws—cold and intrusive—pressed against my bare chest with the inconsiderate familiarity of a decade's companionship.

"Duke! Do you really have to do that!?"

The harsh whisper escaped me before I could soften it, but even as I chided him, my hands brushed his paws away with tenderness that contradicted my tone. The night had grown unexpectedly cold, and I'd surrendered to the sleeping bag's promise of warmth at some point, inadvertently inviting Duke to seek refuge in its confines.

Can't blame him for wanting to be warm. Can't blame any of us for that.

Across the tent, faint stirrings drew my attention. Joel was moving—shifting on the mattress with the slow, careful movements of someone testing their body's limits. Henri's familiar soft snores provided counterpoint from his chosen spot at the foot of the mattress, the small dog having claimed his territory with the stubborn consistency that defined him.

A small smile found my lips despite everything.

Henri had always been a creature of habit. Back on Earth, his world had revolved around the comfort of his cushion on the couch, or the leisurely pursuit of following sunlight across the living room floor. The outdoors had never been his domain—save for the deck, where he'd lounge in the sun's warmth with the contentment of a creature who'd found his place in the universe.

The deck. That was always his exception.

The memory brought a pang of nostalgia. Those simple days when the biggest concern was whether Henri had moved to catch the afternoon sun. Now, watching him navigate the dust and unfamiliarity of Clivilius without complaint, I couldn't help but admire his resilience.

Maybe there's a lesson there. Focus on the unchanged routines—feeding time, companionship—even when everything else has transformed beyond recognition.

I embraced Duke briefly, a silent thank you for his warmth and presence, then carefully extricated myself from the sleeping bag. The ritual of sniffing yesterday's t-shirt before pulling it over my head was a testament to our living conditions—the fabric carried the scent of smoke and dried sweat.

Glamorous new life in another dimension. Living the dream.

Joel was struggling to sit up when I reached him.

The sight of him—determined despite obvious weakness, propped against a makeshift fortress of pillows—stirred something complicated in my chest. Pride at his resilience. Concern at his fragility. The still-surreal awareness that this young man was my son, my blood, my responsibility.

"How are you feeling?"

I tamped down the emotions that threatened to surface. The shock of discovering Joel's existence only months ago still felt unreal—a twist in my life's narrative I hadn't anticipated and couldn't fully process.

Kate knew. She must have known. Made the choice to keep this truth from me, severing ties completely rather than sharing something this fundamental.

The anger at her deception simmered beneath the surface, but it had no place here. Not now. Not with Joel watching me with those bright blue eyes—my eyes—waiting for help I wasn't sure I knew how to give.

"Water."

Joel's voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper, the single word carrying the weight of his damaged throat.

"Of course."

I grabbed an unopened bottle of spring water, the plastic cool against my palm. An idea formed—a small gesture toward his autonomy, his dignity.

"Do you want to try opening it?"

I held the bottle out to him, an offer meant to empower while remaining ready to assist.

What followed was heart-wrenching.

Joel's hand trembled as he reached for the bottle. His fingers failed to grasp it properly—the coordination that should have been automatic betraying him completely. A sharp cry of pain escaped him as the bottle slipped, falling to the mattress with a soft thud.

My heart clenched at the sight. The vulnerability of it—this grown man, my son, unable to perform the simplest of tasks. Empathy and fierce protectiveness surged through me in equal measure.

"What's wrong?"

My voice was steady, calm—a deliberate performance that masked the storm of worry within. I reached for Joel's arm, offering support.

Duke, interpreting the fallen bottle as a threat or perhaps a toy, began barking with the insistent enthusiasm of a dog who'd found something requiring attention.

Not now, Duke. Not fucking now.

I ignored him, my focus narrowing to Joel, to understanding the source of his pain.

"May I enter?"

Glenda's voice cut through, her head appearing through the tent's entrance with the formal hesitation of someone aware they might be intruding.

"Yeah." My attention shifted from Joel to her. Under different circumstances, the sudden appearance might have sparked irritation, but Joel's obvious injury made her timing feel almost providential. "Come take a look at this."

The invitation carried urgency that I couldn't hide.

As Glenda approached, I noticed Duke's reaction—his gaze unwavering and alert, following her every step with the focused intensity of a silent guardian. A brief smile touched my lips despite the tension.

At least I can always count on you to have my back.

"His hand is hurt." I lifted Joel's arm gently, presenting it to Glenda as she knelt beside me on the tent floor.

She wasted no time, her hands moving with the experience of someone who'd performed these assessments countless times. "Wrist movement seems fine," she noted, her focus narrowing as she manipulated Joel's hand, checking each joint for mobility and signs of distress.

The moment she touched Joel's index finger, his reaction was immediate—a croaky yelp of pain that cut through the silence, startling even Duke into momentary quiet.

Glenda's diagnosis came within seconds.

"I believe he has a broken finger."

The pronouncement landed with clinical weight, her gaze lifting from Joel's injured hand to meet his eyes.

"How bad is it?" The question burst from me, my voice tight with sudden fear. The possibility of Joel's injury being more severe than anticipated sent adrenaline coursing through my system, igniting worst-case scenarios that spiralled beyond my control.

"Impossible to say without an x-ray, but with our limited resources, I doubt it would make any difference even if we could x-ray his finger." Her voice carried resignation that only deepened my dread. The slow shake of her head was a silent testament to our circumstances.

We're in another fucking dimension with no hospitals, no proper medical equipment, no way to properly diagnose or treat anything serious.

The thought was a cold hand gripping my heart.

Fuck you, Luke!

The accusation welled up with venomous clarity—aimed at the absent party responsible for the cascade of events that had brought us here. But the words remained trapped, imprisoned by the swell of emotions threatening to overwhelm me.

"I'll go and check what supplies we have. I should be able to take care of it. I can always ask Luke for additional supplies if I need them." Glenda's voice was a blend of determination and practicality.

"You've spoken to Luke?" The question emerged tinged with irritation I couldn't quite suppress.

"Not this morning. But I've given him my access card for the Royal. As long as he is careful, he will have access to all the supplies we'll likely ever need."

As long as he's careful. As long as Luke—easily distracted, self-absorbed Luke—can be trusted to remember our survival needs while juggling whatever other priorities occupy his attention. If he’s not too busy jerking himself off.

"I'm glad you have that much faith in him." The words escaped in a breath of resigned scepticism.

"You don't?" Glenda's eyebrow arched in silent challenge.

My response was non-verbal—a tight press of lips and a shrug that served as barrier against further probing. I turned my attention back to Joel, unscrewing the water bottle lid with perhaps more force than necessary.

As Joel took slow, careful sips, Glenda gently dabbed at the water that escaped down his chin. The tenderness of the gesture caught me off guard—a reminder that whatever my complicated feelings about her, she was capable of genuine care.

"Mind if I look the rest of him over?" Her request was directed to me but respectful of Joel's autonomy.

I sought Joel's silent consent. His nod, soft but clear, granted permission.

"Go for it. I have two hungry dogs to feed anyway."

At the mere hint of food, Henri's reaction was instantaneous. His body sprang to life as he leapt from the mattress and darted toward the supply bags with an enthusiasm that belied his usual lethargy. The transformation from sleepy companion to food-motivated torpedo never failed to amuse me.

A laugh escaped—the sound a brief respite from the tension that had been building since I woke. I gave Henri a playful scratch on the head as I retrieved a tin from the bag.

The pungent aroma of tinned dog food hit me immediately—lamb and vegetables with gravy, according to the label, though the smell suggested something considerably less appetising. Duke and Henri didn't share my reservations, diving into their bowls with the enthusiastic abandon of creatures who'd never heard of table manners.

At least someone's having a good morning.

"Everything else seems to be okay. Your bruises will heal." Glenda's voice carried reassurance that cut through the sound of eager canine consumption.

"And his neck?" I called back, the question carrying more anxiety than I'd intended to reveal.

"No sign of infection. Don't do anything strenuous and with plenty of rest it looks like your throat will heal fine."

The relief was immediate but incomplete. Joel was alive. Joel was healing. But Joel had a broken finger, a damaged throat, and we were trapped in a dimension with no proper medical facilities.

Small victories. Take the small victories.

The dog food smell drove me away before I could settle into the relief. My sensitive nose had always been both blessing and curse, and right now it was demanding I retreat from the feeding frenzy.

Returning to Joel's side, I found Glenda preparing her next suggestion.

"I think it might be worth keeping a bucket of lagoon water here and dabbing some on his neck every few hours. I suspect that might help."

"Really?" The surprise in my question was genuine.

The idea that lagoon water might contribute to Joel's recovery was unconventional—but then again, nothing about Joel's survival had been conventional. The lagoon had brought him back to life. Had restored blood to veins that should have been empty. Perhaps its properties extended to continued healing.

"He really shouldn't be alive."

Glenda's observation, stark and unfiltered, struck me with the force of a physical blow.

Who the fuck does this woman think she is, telling me my son should be dead!?

My fists clenched, the visceral reaction barely contained. The fury that surged through me was disproportionate to her words—I knew that, somewhere beneath the anger—but I couldn't stop it.

"But he is," Glenda continued quickly, perhaps sensing the rising tension. "I'd like to set up a lab to study the properties of the lagoon water. I'll talk with Paul and Luke about it this morning."

The pivot to planning defused some of my anger, though not all.

"Why Paul?"

"With you being preoccupied with Joel, it would make sense for Paul to take responsibility for leading the camp's development."

"Hmph." The scoff escaped before I could stop it. "Why not Kain? Why not you?"

"I'm a medical professional. Medical matters are all that I have any interest in leading."

A silence followed as she seemed to weigh her next words.

"And Kain?"

"Kain is a strong, young man. Luke was wise to choose him, but he lacks the experience we're going to need for our settlement to thrive."

The assessment was blunt. Pragmatic. Impossible to argue with, even though the protective instinct toward my nephew wanted to defend his capabilities.

I looked away, unable to hold her gaze as the reality settled in.

"Do you want me to get that bucket of water for you?"

"No." My gaze shifted to Joel, who had managed to find comfort lying down again. The thought of stepping away tugged at me—reluctance and necessity warring for dominance. "I don't ever want to leave your side, but it'll probably do me good to get a short walk and some fresh air."

The admission was as much for myself as for Joel. I needed to move. Needed to escape the confines of the tent and the complicated dynamics that seemed to multiply with every passing day.

"Very well then. I'll be back shortly, and we'll get that finger of yours all sorted." Glenda patted Joel's leg gently, a gesture of comfort, before rising and exiting the tent.

The silence that followed Glenda's departure was different. Heavier. Laden with things unsaid.

"You… you don't… like her… do… you?"

Joel's words came fragmented, broken by the effort it took to voice them. He struggled back into a sitting position, his eyes seeking mine with an intensity that demanded honesty.

"I'm not…" The words caught in my throat. The complexity of my feelings toward Glenda resisted simple expression. "She'll take good care of you."

The deflection was deliberate. The last thing Joel needed was to sense my unease about the woman responsible for his medical care. Whatever my personal reservations, Glenda had demonstrated competence. That had to be enough.

I handed him the water bottle, hoping to redirect his attention.

"You two look well."

Paul's voice, unexpected and jarring, pulled me from the moment. His entrance was abrupt, his presence an intrusion into the fragile calm we'd managed to establish.

"Well enough." My response was terser than intended, reflecting my current state more than I'd meant to reveal.

"I'm just collecting my things to take to the other tent."

I watched him move with purpose, gathering belongings with the brisk efficiency of someone keen to minimise conversation.

"Why?"

The question emerged before I could weigh its necessity.

"Oh, Kain and I thought it would be a good idea if we took the third tent and left you and Joel to have this one. And Luke, if he ever stays with us."

"Hmph."

The mention of Luke sparked another cynical reaction. "I'm not sure Luke will be spending many nights with us."

The bitterness in my words was unmistakable—a reflection of the previous night's confrontation, of the impasse we'd reached that felt increasingly permanent.

Paul's reaction—furrowed brow, silent departure—left lingering unease. Watching him leave, I was struck by the isolation of our circumstances, the shifting dynamics that seemed to reconfigure themselves daily.

"Is there anyone… here… that you like?"

Joel's question was unexpected. Direct. The kind of observation that cut through pretence to expose uncomfortable truths.

I turned toward him, attempting to lighten the mood with a shrug. "I like you, don't I?"

"Hardly reassuring."

A flicker of disappointment crossed his features before his eyes closed—a retreat from conversation that felt like criticism.

"What's that supposed…"

My words trailed off, cut short by yet another intrusion.

"Hey, Uncle Jamie."

Kain's entrance was abrupt, his timing spectacularly poor.

For fuck's sake!

The irritation was instant, my patience worn threadbare by the constant parade of interruptions.

"Anyone else want to interrupt us this morning!?"

The snap in my voice was sharper than intended—a raw edge of frustration breaking through the thin veneer of civility I'd been maintaining.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt." Kain's reaction was immediate, his apology quick as he moved to leave.

Shit.

The regret was instant. Kain hadn't done anything wrong. He'd just wanted to check on Joel—a kind impulse met with my unfiltered irritation.

"Kain, wait."

He paused, turning back with hesitance that made me wince internally.

"I'm… it's okay if you stay."

The invitation was a small attempt at amends.

"I… I just wanted to see how Joel was doing." Kain's nervousness was evident in the shuffle of his feet.

I don't mean to make him feel uncomfortable. He's just a kid caught up in circumstances none of us asked for.

"I'm fine." Joel's whisper cut through the tension.

"Oh… you can talk now?" Kain's surprise was genuine, his approach cautious yet curious.

"Getting there."

"You'd better give your voice a rest and have some more water. Keep your throat hydrated." The protective instinct took over as I pressed the water bottle gently against Joel's lips, helping him drink before settling him back down.

"You ready?"

Glenda's return was marked by the bag of medical supplies she carried.

"You don't need me, do you?" Kain's question flickered between Glenda and me.

"No, Jamie and I can manage." Glenda's response was firm. "He's getting good practice."

Something about her tone—the assumption that I was her assistant, her helper, someone who existed to support her work—ignited the anger I'd been barely containing.

"I'm not your fucking lap-dog."

The words were out before I could stop them, harsh and venomous.

Kain's face flushed—embarrassment or perhaps anger—his reaction immediate. "I'm going to give myself a quick wash," he muttered, retreating from the growing tension.

Glenda knelt beside Joel, positioning her supply bag against her thigh with the unruffled composure of someone who'd dealt with worse outbursts than mine. "Can you sit?" she inquired, arms outstretched toward Joel.

Fuck! I just laid him back down!

The thought screamed in my head—silent protest against the perpetual cycle of sitting up and lying down, progress and setback. My body moved instinctively to help, only to be stopped by Glenda's sharp glare.

Fine. Let him try on his own. Let me stand here feeling useless.

Arms crossed defensively over my chest, I watched Joel struggle to comply. His determination was a flicker of light in the dimness—and despite my simmering frustration, a swell of admiration for his resilience grew beneath the surface.

"I'm going to get the fucking bucket of water."

The announcement was half growl, half resignation. I turned and left the tent, the flap whispering closed behind me.

Outside, fresh air greeted me like a reprieve. The Clivilius sky stretched overhead—that strange, starless expanse that was becoming disturbingly familiar. The dust crunched beneath my feet as I stood there, breathing deeply, trying to release the tension that had coiled itself around every muscle.

Duke appeared at my side within moments, his presence a silent comfort that required nothing from me except acknowledgment.

"Come on, Duke." The words came easier now, a hint of smile finding its way through the turmoil. "At least we like each other."

The observation was light-hearted, half-joking—but it carried truth that lifted some weight from my shoulders. In a world where every interaction seemed fraught with complication and conflict, Duke's loyalty was uncomplicated. His companionship demanded nothing except the basics: food, water, warmth, and the occasional scratch behind the ears.

Simple. Honest. More than I can say for most of the humans in my life right now.

We walked toward the lagoon together, man and dog, leaving behind the tent with its broken fingers and medical examinations and constant interruptions. The bucket waited to be filled. Joel needed the water for healing.

But for now—just for these few minutes of walking through red dust with Duke trotting beside me—I allowed myself the luxury of not thinking about any of it.

The responsibilities would still exist when I returned.

Right now, I just needed to breathe.