Failed Inspection

"There's something deeply humiliating about being defeated by a plastic bottle cap. At least the dog was impressed."

Lying there in the tent as the faint glow of dawn began to break, I found a strange solace in the rhythmic beating of my heart.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Steady. Persistent. Alive.

With each beat felt under my hand resting on my chest, it was a reminder that I was still alive, a stark contrast to the eerie void I had been trapped in for an unknown length of time.

I'd pressed my palm there sometime during the night. Couldn't remember deciding to do it. Just woke up with my hand over my heart like I was pledging allegiance to my own survival.

The muscle beneath my ribs contracted and released with mechanical precision, pumping blood through veins that had been empty yesterday.

Blood that shouldn't exist. A heart that had stopped.

Like a truck engine that had seized completely, then somehow turned over again. Garry would have called it a bloody miracle. Would have scratched his head and muttered about checking the spark plugs even though spark plugs had nothing to do with it.

The tent was dimly lit by the residual glow of the campfire seeping through its spacious entrance.

The light was amber and wavering, casting strange shadows on the canvas walls. I could see shapes now—the bulk of what might be supply bags, the outline of Jamie's sleeping form across the tent, the small mound of fur near my feet that I gradually recognised as Henri.

The darkness outside was dense and impenetrable.

Not the darkness I knew from Tasmania. Back home, even on the blackest nights, there was always something—the amber glow of Hobart's streetlights reflected off clouds, the distant flicker of the casino, light pollution bleeding into the sky until you could barely see Orion's belt anymore.

This was different.

This was the kind of darkness that existed before humans started ruining the view. The kind of darkness astronomers dreamed about. No light pollution. No interference. Just... nothing.

Where am I?

The question surfaced for the hundredth time since I'd woken in the lagoon. I was somewhere called Clivilius—the voice had told me that much. But what that meant, where it was, how I had gotten here... those answers remained frustratingly out of reach.

Confined to the mattress, my body's limited mobility made it abundantly clear that any attempt at escaping the tent, let alone the camp, was futile.

I tested myself like I was doing a pre-trip inspection on the truck. Fingers first—they moved, sluggishly, like they were operating through cold honey. Toes next—a twitch, nothing more. Arms—weak, trembling when I tried to lift them. Legs—might as well have been filled with concrete.

Failed inspection. Vehicle not roadworthy.

I couldn't even stand without someone's help.

After several fruitless attempts to roll off the mattress, I resigned myself to the situation, my mind wandering back to the events of the previous night.

My body ached persistently, a dull reminder of the physical trauma I had endured, and my thoughts were muddled, as if shrouded in a perpetual fog.

The fog wasn't just mental. My memories from yesterday came in fragments—sharp-edged shards that didn't quite fit together. Like trying to assemble origami instructions that had been torn up and scattered. The lagoon. Jamie's face above me. The walk to camp. Faces I didn't recognise. Blood dripping from my nose.

I remembered Jamie and me by the campfire, just long enough for him to eat and for me to breathe in the fresh air.

The fire had been warm. Welcoming. The only familiar thing in this alien landscape—humans had been gathering around flames since before we figured out wheels. That, at least, made sense.

The air here, wherever 'here' was, tasted different, purer than anything I'd ever experienced.

Not the salt-tinged air of Hobart's waterfront that always smelled vaguely of fish and chips. Not the eucalyptus-scented breeze that came down from Mount Wellington after rain. This air was... clean. Almost too clean. Like it had never passed through a single exhaust pipe or factory chimney.

The sky had darkened quickly that night.

That had frightened me more than I wanted to admit. In Tasmania, twilight lingered—you could watch Venus appear first, then the brighter stars, then gradually the fainter ones as your eyes adjusted. A slow reveal, like the universe was being patient with you.

Here, the light had simply... gone. One moment the sky was painted with sunset colours, the next it was black.

No transition. No warning. Like someone had flicked a switch.

I struggled to keep my eyes open, my body swaying precariously as I sat propped against a log.

The exhaustion had been absolute. Every cell in my body screaming for rest, for the oblivion of sleep, for some respite from the constant effort of existing.

Jamie eventually guided me back to the tent, where I now lay pondering in the near-darkness.

As I absentmindedly ran my fingers through the sparse hairs on my chest, fragments of the previous night drifted back to me.

Jamie helping me to the mattress. Insisting I take the only proper bedding while he slept on the hard ground. The gentleness with which he'd helped me out of my ruined courier uniform when I couldn't bear the fabric against my skin any longer.

Father looking after son.

Still felt strange to think it. Like wearing someone else's shirt—technically it fit, but it didn't feel like mine yet.

I had spent nineteen years being the one who helped. Making sure Mum ate dinner when she was too tired. Carrying the shopping up the stairs. Being the man of the house since before I understood what that meant.

And then, in the space of a single night, I had become the one being cared for. By a man I had only just met. A stranger who was also my father.

The role reversal should have felt wrong. Should have chafed against every instinct I'd developed over years of quiet responsibility.

Instead, it had felt like something clicking into place. Like finding a piece of origami I didn't know was missing.

Small mercies. That's what Mum would have called it.

In this dark, quiet space, with the gentle rustling of the tent in the faint breeze and Henri's small body radiating warmth against my feet, I felt a tenuous peace settling over me.

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

Jamie's harsh whisper tore through the quiet of the tent, abruptly pulling me from my serene reflections.

My eyes snapped open.

Across the tent, in the dim light filtering through the entrance, I could make out Jamie's form. He was sitting up in his sleeping bag, gesturing at Duke—the larger of the two Shih Tzus—who appeared to have done something offensive.

Probably licked his face. Dogs were like that. No sense of boundaries. No concept of personal space. Henri had proven that when he'd bolted out the door and led me on that fateful chase through the Portal.

My eyes adjusted to the light, and I registered the sight of Henri, Duke's younger brother, curled up at my feet, his soft snores a gentle backdrop to the tent's calm.

The little dog had made himself at home against my ankles sometime during the night. His fur was warm, his breathing steady, his presence oddly comforting.

At least someone here isn't complicated.

I attempted a chuckle at the sight, but the sound that escaped me was more akin to a pig's grunt.

Bloody hell.

That wasn't a chuckle. That wasn't even close to a chuckle. That was the sound of a dying lawn mower trying to turn over.

It had been a while since I had tried speaking, and the memory of the grating pain in my throat from the few words I managed last night made me hesitant to try again.

The words I had spoken yesterday—home, water, sorry—had each felt like swallowing broken glass. The damaged tissue of my throat protesting every vibration, every attempt to force air through structures that had been severed and somehow reformed.

The possibility of losing my ability to speak more extensively filled me with a deep-seated terror.

What if I could never speak properly again? What if my voice was permanently destroyed?

Mute delivery driver. There's a career option.

The dark humour felt automatic, but the fear beneath it was real. To be alive and unable to communicate, unable to ask the thousand questions burning in my mind, unable to tell Mum I was okay...

That would be worse than the void.

Across the tent, Jamie was giving Duke a brief cuddle before sliding out of his sleeping bag.

The affection was natural, unconscious—the kind of intimacy that developed between a person and their pet over years of companionship. Duke's tail wagged as Jamie ruffled his ears.

Normal things still exist, I reminded myself. People still love their dogs. Even here. Even in impossible places.

I watched them for a moment, gathering my resolve.

I've got to try, I silently encouraged myself.

I couldn't spend the rest of my existence lying flat on a mattress like an undelivered package. Had to test my body. Had to see what it could do. Had to start the long process of reclaiming the strength that had been stripped away.

A grimace crossed my face as a sharp pain seared across my abdomen on my first attempt to sit up.

The pain was unexpected—a white-hot slash across muscles I hadn't known I was using. My stomach, my sides, my lower back—everything protested the motion like I was trying to lift a pallet of bricks with my bare hands.

My shoulders barely lifted a few inches off the mattress.

Pathetic.

I couldn't even do a sit-up. Couldn't perform a motion I had done thousands of times without thought. My brain sent the signal, my body sent back an error message.

Undeterred, I gathered all my strength for a second attempt and, with considerable effort, managed to pull myself into a sitting position.

The effort was monumental. Every muscle in my core screaming, every breath coming in ragged gasps. But I was sitting. Technically.

I was upright, sort of, with my upper body slumped forward, nearly folding me in half.

My head hung between my knees, my arms dangled uselessly at my sides. I looked like a puppet with cut strings.

Shit! My muscles have become so weak.

I had never been particularly strong—not like the blokes at the depot who could toss boxes around like they were made of cardboard. But I had been functional. Capable. Able to load a truck, climb stairs, carry my own weight through the world.

Now I could barely sit up.

A tremor started in my toes and worked its way up through my body, culminating in a wave of nausea and a deep sense of shame.

The shaking was involuntary—my body's response to the extreme effort of holding myself upright. Cold sweat broke out on my forehead. My stomach lurched.

I had become so dependent, so pathetic, a far cry from the person I once was.

Nineteen years old. I should be in my prime. Instead, I was a trembling wreck who couldn't even sit up straight.

Some resurrection this turned out to be.

"How are you feeling?"

Jamie's question came as I was focused intensely on maintaining my upright position.

I hadn't even noticed him approach. Had been so consumed by the effort of sitting, by the shame of my weakness, that his presence beside me came as a surprise.

His face swam into focus—concern evident in the lines around his eyes, in the set of his mouth. He was crouched beside the mattress, watching me.

Worried, I decided. He's worried about me.

Strange. Novel. I had spent nineteen years with only my mother worrying about me. Now there was someone else. Someone whose worry felt different somehow. Heavier. Like it came from a different place.

Determined to hide the excruciating pain that seemed to invade every inch of my body, I clenched my teeth and shifted my gaze upwards to meet his.

"Water," I managed to croak out in a voice so hoarse it barely sounded like my own.

The request came instinctively, without any prior thought.

My throat was parched. Had been parched since I'd woken, probably since before. The desperate need for liquid had been building in the background, and now that I was upright enough to potentially drink, the need announced itself with sudden urgency.

Instinctive? I questioned internally, surprised at the natural response my body had given.

My brain hadn't consciously decided to ask for water. My body had simply announced its need. Was that normal? Was that how resurrection worked? The flesh taking over while the mind struggled to catch up?

"Of course," Jamie responded, his tone laced with understanding.

He moved quickly—grabbing an unopened bottle of spring water from somewhere near his sleeping bag. The bottle was clear plastic, the water inside catching the morning light like liquid diamonds.

He held it out to me.

"Do you want to try opening it?" he asked, his voice hopeful yet cautious.

The question was kind. Offering me agency. The chance to do something for myself rather than being entirely dependent.

Be brave, I silently urged myself. Don't disappoint him now.

My hand, shaky and uncertain, reached out for the bottle.

The motion was ungainly—my arm moving in jerks rather than the smooth arc I intended. My fingers approached the bottle's cap with all the coordination of a drunk trying to thread a needle.

A sudden, sharp pain shot through my fingers as I tried to grip the top of the bottle, causing me to cry out involuntarily.

The cry was more yelp than scream—a startled, animal sound that escaped before I could suppress it. The pain was extraordinary, blazing from my index finger up through my hand, my wrist, my arm.

The bottle slipped from my grasp and fell onto the bed.

What the—

I stared at my hand in horror. What had happened? What was wrong with my finger?

Duke, ever alert, began to bark at the rolling bottle as it tumbled off the mattress and across the tent floor.

The barking was sharp, insistent—the excited yapping of a dog who'd found something interesting. Under other circumstances, it might have been amusing.

Dog versus water bottle. Film at eleven.

But the pain was too sharp for humour.

"What's wrong?" Jamie asked, his attention immediately shifting from the bottle to me.

He reached out for my arm, concern etched on his face.

In that moment, the reality of my situation hit me with full force.

The simple act of opening a bottle of water, something I had taken for granted, was now a monumental task.

How many bottles had I opened in my life? Thousands? Tens of thousands? Water bottles on the truck, sauce bottles at dinner, jars for Mum when her arthritis flared up—all the small acts of domestic competence that made up a normal existence.

And now I couldn't do it.

Useless. Absolutely bloody useless.