Five Minutes in the Dust

"Victory here never feels like triumph—it’s more like sitting in the dirt, convincing yourself the caravan didn’t win."

The thrill of the second successful caravan purchase pulsed through me as I eased the vehicle through the swirling energies of the Portal. A quiet, smug sort of accomplishment settled in my chest—the feeling you get when you know you’ve done something both absurd and oddly impressive. I bet that must be the fastest caravan sale ever, I thought, the wry smile tugging at my lips an uninvited guest. Who knew I’d become the sort of person who could talk someone out of their mobile home before they’d finished their coffee?

Sophie, of course, had made another flawless appearance. Meeting Lisa and Malcolm at a small, unassuming café in Blackmans Bay had been an inspired choice. The place smelled faintly of burnt espresso and sea breeze, with the kind of background noise that made overhearing anything short of a shouted confession almost impossible. I’d slid into Sophie’s skin as easily as slipping on a favourite coat, greeting them with a warm handshake and a polite smile that concealed just how badly I wanted to get the whole thing over with.

Cash, as always, had been my magic wand. One flash of folded notes, and the negotiation became less about the caravan and more about how quickly they could clear their table. The deal was done before the coffee had even cooled, which suited me perfectly. The fewer words exchanged, the less risk of tripping over Sophie’s fabricated backstory.

The absence of a receipt, coupled with my steadfast use of a false name, left no trail worth following. It was as clean a break as one could hope for. Apart from a vague physical description—“polite woman, about yea high, had that ‘don’t mess with me’ look”—there was nothing to link me, Beatrix, to the caravan or the transaction. And really, I doubted Lisa and Malcolm would be rushing to declare the cash to the tax office, given the casual setting and their speed to accept it.

Back in Clivilius, the brief flicker of satisfaction from the second caravan evaporated almost instantly, replaced by a gnawing sense of unease. The moment my gaze landed on Paul, still loitering around the first caravan—which, to my mounting irritation, remained stubbornly planted exactly where I’d left it—my stomach gave a little twist.

“He’s still here,” I muttered under my breath, the words tasting of both observation and quiet accusation. Paul didn’t hear me, or perhaps pretended not to, his focus firmly fixed on whatever mysterious logic dictated his pacing circuit around the vehicle.

In the end, I gave in and let him take Jamie’s car to tow the second caravan back to camp. It wasn’t so much a decision as it was an irritated surrender, the kind you make knowing it will probably come back to haunt you. Watching him drive off, the tyres chewing through the thick, powdery Clivilian dust, I felt my jaw tighten. The air filled with a gritty haze that clung to my clothes, my skin, and my patience.

His absence dragged on, the minutes stretching long and thin, each one winding the knot in my gut a little tighter. The barren horizon offered no hint of movement, no comforting sign of progress. Just emptiness, and that low, dry wind that always seemed to carry a faint whisper of something watching.

When Paul finally reappeared, there was no fanfare—no satisfied declaration, no triumphant grin—just his silent return, which I took as confirmation that the job was done. Relief tried to take root, but it withered almost immediately under the weight of the next problem looming on my mental horizon.

Against my explicitly stated wishes, Paul decided—apparently by divine right—to hitch Jamie’s car to the first caravan. His movements were brisk, methodical, and irritatingly purposeful, the kind of determination that suggested he’d already decided this was happening and my opinion was a minor, inconvenient footnote.

I felt the irritation rise like heat off the dust, hot and suffocating. It wasn’t just the blatant disregard for what I’d said—it was the gnawing worry about what might follow if he dragged the car off without thinking through the logistics. In this place, a “small oversight” could snowball into something deadly, and Paul seemed hell-bent on testing the theory.

Luke joined him, the two of them leaning in close, murmuring in that low, brother-to-brother register that shuts everyone else out. From where I stood, their huddled shapes looked less like a strategic conference and more like a deliberate act of exclusion.

“I need the car back, Paul!” I shouted, letting the sharp edge of exasperation cut through the dry, open air. It carried easily, but judging by their lack of reaction, it might as well have been a polite cough.

That simmer of irritation turned into something closer to desperation. Fine. If they weren’t going to listen, I’d do it myself. I strode forward, dust crunching under my boots, and crouched by the tow hitch, my movements jerky and uncoordinated, all elbows and bad temper.

“C’mon, Paul, just help me unhitch it,” I said, the words slipping into something perilously close to pleading. My hands came together in a quick, involuntary gesture of appeal. I turned to Luke instead, my voice softening as I called his name—“Luke?”—and fixed him with the kind of look that carried both an unspoken demand and a promise of consequences.

His response was an immediate retreat, arms lifted in that universal signal of “not my problem.” “I have stuff to do,” he said, already backing away, his tone making it clear there was nothing I could say to hook him back in.

Paul’s offhand mention of needing more wood landed in my ears with all the urgency of someone announcing they were out of biscuits. Under normal circumstances, perhaps I might have cared. But right now? The caravan was still hitched to Jamie’s car, and that was the only detail in my mental field of vision. Everything else—wood, logistics, small talk—was white noise.

“I’ll take care of the wood,” Luke said, stepping in with an effortless display of brotherly solidarity that, just for a second, I wished was directed at me instead. He gave Paul a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder, the kind of casual physical support that said, We’re in this together. I stood there watching it, knowing full well I wasn’t part of that “we.”

“Luke?” My voice followed him as he turned away, the syllable catching on the edge of my own frustration. He didn’t turn back—just disappeared through the Portal with the smooth efficiency of someone neatly exiting a conversation they wanted no part of.

“I’ll only be five minutes,” Paul called, leaning toward the open car window with that tone people use when they think they’re being reassuring. It wasn’t. My jaw clenched.

“Fine,” I murmured, the single syllable heavy with reluctant surrender. The word tasted like defeat, though I wasn’t about to gift him the satisfaction of anything more dramatic. His grin, however, made it clear he’d chalked this up as a win.

I stepped aside, letting him climb into the driver’s seat. The engine roared, the wheels bit into the dirt, and the caravan rolled away in a haze of red dust that clung to the air like an insult.

Left standing in its wake, I decided I wasn’t going to pace, and I wasn’t going to fidget. I sat down. Right there in the Clivilian dust. It puffed up around me in a soft cloud before settling over my hair, my clothes, my skin. It itched instantly—a reminder that even in stillness, this place pressed itself into you.

I folded my arms, the set of my posture broadcasting that I could be stubborn longer than Paul could be “five minutes.” My eyes drifted to the horizon, but my thoughts spiralled elsewhere—running the what-ifs, the cause-and-effect chains, the way every single decision here seemed to ripple outward into something bigger. Waiting, I realised, wasn’t just killing time. It was an unspoken act of survival in a world where patience often had sharper edges than action.