First Stock

“Sometimes all you need is one clean dressing and someone willing to run.”

As we entered the tent, the sight of Jamie attempting to discreetly wipe away his tears was a poignant reminder of the reason behind our urgent need for supplies. His vulnerability in that moment, juxtaposed with the stoic front he had tried to maintain earlier, underscored the complexity of our situation. The bravado was gone now, peeled back by pain, exposing something raw and deeply human. That single motion—rubbing his face with the back of his hand as if he could erase the evidence—cut through me far more deeply than any outburst.

"You okay?" asked Luke, abandoning the bags he was carrying and rushing to Jamie's side.

"Yeah," Jamie's response, though sniffed back through pain, was an attempt to reassure, to minimise his suffering in the eyes of his partner. His admission, "Just in a lot of pain," was a stark confession, a crack in his armour that had held, stubbornly, until now.

I didn’t linger on the exchange, though it lingered in me. My gaze turned toward the bags Luke had brought, dropped haphazardly near the centre of the tent. I crouched beside them and pulled one open, the faint rustle of plastic and fabric oddly grounding.

Relief washed over me. Luke has done very well.

Inside were the things I’d feared we wouldn’t have—antiseptic, dressings, gloves, proper bandages, vials, tablets, even a thermometer and portable pulse oximeter. My smile, though private, was genuine. I felt it bloom across my face before I could stop it. This was more than I’d dared hope for. It wasn’t just equipment—it was potential. Possibility. A chance to do my job with something approaching adequacy.

"You'll be right now," Luke assured Jamie. "I've got you some strong pain medication."

His voice held that calm conviction that came naturally to him, and I found myself drawing on it too, letting it fuel my own sense of purpose.

"Paul, spread a blanket on the floor—we’ll use it as a sterile field," I said, already shifting into action. My mind began categorising immediately, calculating what we had against what we still needed. Triage, priorities, treatment protocols—it all slotted into place like a sequence I’d rehearsed a thousand times, but never quite like this.

Paul moved without hesitation, grabbing one of the spare blankets and laying it down with care. The movements were swift, his hands working with an unspoken understanding of urgency.

I began unloading the supplies, placing each item in deliberate order across the blanket. Antiseptic swabs, gauze, tape, gloves, syringes—one by one, I lined them up. The methodical rhythm of the task was strangely comforting, a moment of control in a world where so much remained uncertain.

Luke's voice broke through my concentration. "I'm pretty sure I've got all the items on the list without an asterisk," he said, a hint of uncertainty in his voice. "But I'll have to go back now and check the supply room for the rest."

The nervous shifting of his weight did not escape my notice, nor did the subtle clenching of his jaw as he tried to sound more confident than he clearly felt. A brief flare of frustration sparked within me, tight and sharp. Now's not the time for your nerves to play up, Luke. We couldn't afford hesitations—not now, not when every moment counted.

"Yes," I responded, keeping my tone even, measured. I tried to mask my own growing concern with a veneer of calm authority, the kind I had worn so many times in emergency rooms back home. "I will need the antiseptic and antibiotics. I can't dress Jamie's wounds properly without them."

My gaze flicked to Jamie. His skin was pallid, waxy with discomfort. Even his breath had taken on a shallower rhythm, a quiet alarm bell echoing in my head. The importance of those missing supplies loomed large in the small, enclosed space. Without them, all our efforts so far could be undone.

"Go," I insisted, snapping my attention back to Luke, my voice clipped and firm, leaving no room for debate. The moment was punctuated by Jamie’s pained moan—a raw, involuntary sound that pulled at something deep inside me. It was the kind of sound I’d heard too many times before. A sound that always meant: hurry.

"Just try to relax," I told Jamie, the words little more than a whisper of comfort. I reached out, gently adjusting the blanket across his chest, my fingers brushing his clammy skin. There was so little I could offer without the right tools—only presence, only words. Sometimes that had to be enough.

Turning back to Luke, I met his eyes and mouthed a silent, emphatic "Go," adding a nod for emphasis. The flicker of fear I saw in his expression was matched by the resolve behind it. He understood. He nodded silently and turned, his exit as quiet as the gravity of his task was immense.

"Not much longer now," I murmured to Jamie, gently smoothing the edge of the blanket again. I tried to infuse my voice with warmth, with something steady and dependable. "And I'll have something to take the pain away and help you sleep."

Jamie’s reply, a long, loud exhale, was half relief, half exhaustion. I could feel the weight of it, like something being surrendered—pain, resistance, pride. He was holding on, but only just.

"Well, if you don't need me, Glenda, I'll go and see if I can finish getting this other tent up," Paul said. His willingness to act, to be useful, was something I appreciated more than I had words for in that moment.

"That's fine," I replied, already mentally sorting through the next steps—what had to be done for Jamie, what else might be needed, what state I would find the rest of the supplies in when they finally arrived. "I'll come and help you when I've sorted Jamie.”

Paul offered a brief nod and stepped out, the tent flap lifting with a muted sigh of fabric before falling closed again behind him.

And just like that, I was alone with Jamie once more—just me, the wounded, and the waiting.

In the stillness of the tent, time seemed to pause, the silence wrapping around us like a tangible presence. The soft flap of fabric in the breeze outside was the only sound, its rhythm irregular and faintly hypnotic. It was a moment of uneasy anticipation—each of us suspended in our own thoughts, our own small bubble of worry, pain, or quiet resilience. The air felt heavier somehow, as though the tent itself held its breath with us, waiting for the next step in our collective struggle for stability in this new environment.

The sudden rustle at the entrance snapped that stillness in half.

Luke’s return—laden with more bags than I could have reasonably hoped for—was like a breath of air after being submerged. His silhouette filled the frame of the doorway, then he ducked in with his arms full, stumbling slightly under the weight. The sound of supplies brushing against one another, the thud of fabric dropping to the floor—it all broke the spell. His entrance didn’t just disrupt the quiet; it recharged the space with something we hadn’t felt in a while: possibility.

"How did you go?" I asked, more surprised than I intended to sound, my gaze immediately scanning the bulk of the bags. The sheer volume was staggering. My list, though detailed, hadn’t seemed to warrant this much.

Luke grinned, that same crooked mix of pride and mischief that he wore when he was trying not to smirk too hard at his own cleverness. The sight of it warmed me more than I expected.

"I'm pretty sure I've got everything on your list," he said, practically beaming.

The words sparked a flicker of relief in my chest, but the curiosity lingered. My eyes darted again to the bags. There were so many of them. Why so many?

As if reading my thoughts, he added with a shrug, "Oh. And then I just grabbed a heap of random stuff for good measure. I'm not really sure what any of it is, to be honest."

It was such a Luke thing to say—candid, endearing, and slightly reckless. I could almost picture him rummaging through cupboards and drawers in haste, throwing anything vaguely medical into a bag, heart thumping, eyes darting over his shoulder as he hurried before someone stopped him.

From the mattress, Jamie managed a soft chuckle, more breath than sound. His voice cracked slightly, but the humour in it was genuine. "Well, that's not surprising," he murmured.

"Thank you, Luke," I said, and I meant it with more weight than the words might have conveyed. My voice softened, edged with sincerity. He had risked a lot, not just for me, but for Jamie. For all of us. Gratitude didn't feel like enough, but it was all I had to offer in that breath.

Luke gave a small nod, his grin still lingering, though his eyes now carried the shadows of what he'd had to do to get here. And as the tent filled once again with the rustle of unpacking, a quiet sense of momentum returned.

We weren’t out of the woods—not even close—but for the first time in hours, I felt like we were heading in the right direction.

As I reached for the morphine, my movements were methodical, the familiar precision of muscle memory guiding me. Years of training and crisis-honed instincts took over, allowing me to focus not just on the what, but the why. The weight of this moment—here, in Clivilius, far removed from the sterile comfort of Hobart's emergency rooms—lent each action a solemn kind of gravity. Drawing up the dose, swabbing Jamie’s arm with antiseptic, and delivering the injection quickly and cleanly were all routine. But here, in this improvised medical station stitched together by necessity and hope, the routine had become something sacred.

The change in Jamie was near-instantaneous. His body, once tense and coiled like a spring, began to melt into the mattress. Shoulders slackened. Jaw unclenched. The pain, for now, was retreating—washed away in the tide of the medication. I watched closely as his eyelids fluttered, struggling to resist the pull of relief. It was like watching a soldier lay down arms, surrendering not to defeat, but to mercy.

Sleep came for him slowly, but with a gentleness that almost moved me to tears.

A soft breath left my lips as I leaned back on my heels, the muscles in my neck finally uncoiling. For the first time in what felt like hours, there was nothing immediate to do. The adrenaline that had fuelled me began to ebb, and in its place came a cautious sense of accomplishment. Not victory—not yet—but a reprieve. Jamie was stable. That was enough, for now.

But the quiet didn’t last.

Luke's voice cut through the stillness, his words tentative and laced with worry. "He's going to be okay, isn't he?"

The rawness of his tone caught me off guard. Luke—the unshakeable one, the bridge between Earth and Clivilius, the Guardian—was revealing his seams. I turned to him, searching his expression for something I could anchor to, but all I saw was vulnerability reflected back at me, an echo of the fear I had tried so hard to bury.

"I hope so," I replied, unable to dress the uncertainty in anything more reassuring. It was the most honest answer I could give. The wound had been deep, the splinter dangerous. Infection was still a threat. But hope—hope, at least, I could offer.

Luke stepped forward, his hand landing on my shoulder. The pressure was firm, grounding. "I have to go," he said, the words not rushed, but resolute. He was already mentally stepping into whatever lay beyond the canvas walls of this tent.

I gave a small nod, and that was all it took. We understood each other. No further explanation was needed.

His apology came next, unexpected and quiet. "I'm so sorry, Glenda."

The words hit harder than I anticipated. There was more in them than the surface suggested—apology not just for this moment, but perhaps for all of it. For bringing me here. For the way the world had unravelled. For the decisions he'd made and the ones still to come.

"You did the right thing, Luke," I told him, hoping the conviction in my voice would provide the assurance I wasn’t sure I believed myself. He needed to hear it. I needed to say it.

As he turned to leave, I caught my lower lip between my teeth, biting down hard to hold back the rising tide of feeling. The quiet truth settled over me then—Clivilius wasn’t just a detour. It was my world now. Earth had faded into memory, into a past I could never fully reclaim.

"Now, go and do what you need to," I said, steadier now, because I had to be. That was the role. Not just doctor. Anchor.

Luke moved toward the tent’s entrance, his frame hunched slightly, as though bearing the weight of unseen armour. There was purpose in his step, but also weariness—a soul bracing itself for impact.

"And go confidently," I called after him.

He paused at the threshold. The canvas rustled in his wake as he stopped and slowly raised his head, shoulders drawing back, posture straightening by degrees. He didn’t speak—he didn’t have to. That brief, still moment said it all.

Then he was gone.