Fractures

“There’s a crack before the break. You just have to be quiet enough to hear it.”

Returning to Joel with the medical supplies in tow, I felt a distinct knot of resolve begin to tighten in my chest. Each step towards the tent sharpened my focus, my concern for Joel balanced precariously against the need to remain composed. The air inside was still, heavy with expectation.

"You ready?" I asked him gently, setting the bag down and settling beside him with purposeful movement. My eyes met his, signalling not just readiness, but a quiet reassurance that he was in capable hands.

"You don't need me, do you?" Kain asked suddenly, his voice tentative. His gaze flicked between me and his uncle, uncertain—like a child unsure whether to step into a room already filled with adult tension.

"No, Jamie and I can manage," I replied with a calm smile, hoping to ease his discomfort. "He's getting good practice." The words were intended as a light tease, a nudge toward normality in the strained air.

But the humour fell flat. Instead, it ignited something in Jamie.

"I'm not your fucking lap-dog," he snapped, his voice like flint against stone.

Kain’s face flushed crimson. His expression faltered—shoulders tensed, jaw clenched—and for a beat, he looked like he wanted to disappear. Guilt and embarrassment collided across his features, and I felt my own ire rise at Jamie’s sudden and unprovoked burst of anger.

My instinct urged me to respond, to cut him down with something equally sharp. But I knew better. Jamie was tightly wound—his emotions brittle, on edge—and pushing back would only escalate things further. So instead, I bit back the retort that clawed at my throat and held his gaze in silence, letting the moment pass unchallenged.

Kain, perhaps grateful for the chance to retreat, murmured, "I'm going to give myself a quick wash," and made his quiet escape. His voice was subdued, not quite defeated, but certainly dulled. The tent flap rustled softly behind him, its parting leaving behind an awkward stillness.

I took a breath and reassessed. Jamie’s help, I realised, wasn’t essential. Not today.

Shifting my position, I knelt beside Joel and placed the bag of supplies against my thigh. My focus narrowed, intent on the task ahead.

"Can you sit?" I asked, my voice softer now, directed solely at Joel. I extended my arms to support him, gently lifting while scanning for signs of discomfort. As Jamie made to step forward—perhaps in an attempt to reassert himself—I shot him a warning glance. It said all it needed to: Not now. Not helpful.

Joel moved with effort, but also with quiet determination, his brow furrowed in concentration. He winced slightly but managed to sit upright. The simple act felt like a small triumph, a reminder that, against all odds, he was still fighting.

Jamie, clearly sensing the shift, turned sharply on his heel. "I'm going to get the fucking bucket of water," he muttered, venom still laced through every word. His retreat was swift and unceremonious. The flap snapped closed behind him with a force that startled both Joel and me—and clipped poor Duke in the hindquarters on the way out.

The dog yelped and squeezed through the corner of the tent, kicking up a fine mist of dust in his wake. It drifted lazily in the air, catching the morning light, a visible echo of the tension Jamie had left behind.

For a long moment, silence reigned.

And then, with my hands steady and my breath measured, I turned back to Joel. There was work to be done.

"Bite down on this," I instructed Joel, holding out a tightly rolled t-shirt—clean, but softened with age and wear. It was all I had to offer him as both comfort and distraction. He took it without hesitation, though his hands trembled slightly as he brought it to his mouth. The tension in the tent swelled, dense and suffocating, coiling around us in the confined space like mist.

"You'll be okay," I said softly, crouching in close and locking eyes with him. I needed him to see that I believed it—that I wasn’t just saying it for his sake. His wide blue eyes, rimmed with fatigue and uncertainty, searched mine for any flicker of doubt. I held his gaze steady. "I need to straighten your finger. I won't lie to you, it's going to hurt like hell, but I need to strap your broken finger to your adjoining fingers to keep it in place."

The words hung heavy in the air between us. I watched the slow rise and fall of his chest as he steeled himself, pressing the fabric tighter between his teeth until his jaw trembled from the pressure. He gave a single, resolute nod, lips tight around the cloth.

"You ready?" I asked, one final checkpoint before crossing the threshold into pain.

He nodded again—hesitant but sure.

I took a breath, then reached for his hand, cradling it with one palm while the fingers of my other gently encircled his broken digit. I could feel his whole body tense beneath my touch, muscles rigid with anticipation.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, and then I began.

As I straightened the finger, his entire frame jolted, the pain rippling through him in a silent tremor. He didn’t scream, but a muffled groan erupted from behind the t-shirt. My grip on his wrist tightened instinctively—not to restrain, but to anchor.

"Almost done," I murmured, forcing a reassuring smile through my own tension. I caught his eye again. His face had turned pale, lips drawn tight, but he was holding on. "Now we just need to strap it to your other fingers. You may feel a bit more pain, but the worst is over."

I hoped I was right.

Using the clean bandages I’d selected earlier, I began wrapping his injured finger against the others, slow but firm. Each rotation of the fabric was calculated, just tight enough to immobilise without cutting circulation. His skin, already bruised, looked angry beneath the gauze, but there was no swelling—yet.

"I'll give you some medication to take the edge off the pain," I said, easing the rolled shirt from his mouth. It was damp with saliva and tension, a silent record of his endurance. Setting it aside, I leaned over the bag and began to rummage through the remaining supplies. "Do you have any allergies that you are aware of?"

His reply was barely audible. "No." He shook his head slowly, the motion small and stiff, his voice hoarse from effort.

"Okay," I said, nodding once and preparing to retrieve a mild analgesic. But before my hand could close around the packet, Joel’s voice interrupted.

"Oh," he rasped.

I paused mid-motion. "Yes?" I turned my attention back to him, ready to hear something urgent or relevant.

"There is one thing, actually."

I arched an eyebrow, half-expecting some overlooked medical concern.

"Hairy caterpillars."

The absurdity of it made me blink. For a moment, I simply stared at him. Then a smile tugged at the corners of my mouth, and a light chuckle slipped out before I could suppress it. "I don't think you have to worry about finding any of those critters here," I replied, shaking my head in mild disbelief.

It was so wonderfully, oddly human—so ordinary in a world that was anything but.

"Just take a couple of these, get some rest, and I'll check on you regularly throughout the day." I placed two pills in his hand and passed him a bottle of water, watching as he swallowed them down with visible effort.

"Thanks, Glenda," Joel murmured, settling back with a weariness that hadn’t been there earlier, his voice carrying a note of sincere gratitude that lingered in the air.

"You're welcome," I replied, offering him a wide, genuine smile. But as I pulled the blanket over his lap, my thoughts wandered. The smile faded, replaced by the shadow of curiosity.

There was more I wanted to know.

So much more.

"Do you remember what happened to you?" The question left my lips with a calm precision, but beneath the surface, it carried urgency—an unspoken plea for answers. I needed something, anything, that could explain the impossible: Joel, alive when by all rights he shouldn’t be.

His eyes flicked towards me, a flash of something unreadable crossing his face. There was a pause—brief, but loaded. I could almost see the gears turning behind his eyes, weighing something. And then, with an almost too deliberate calm, he said, "No."

Just that. No.

A clipped end to my hopes of clarity.

"Alright, get some rest," I replied, my voice softening instinctively, falling into the rhythm of care even as my mind rebelled against the unanswered questions. I offered him a small, reassuring smile—part instinct, part reflex. But inside, I was reeling.

I moved quickly, almost too quickly, stuffing the remaining medical supplies back into the bag with quiet efficiency. Every action had a crispness, a purpose, though my thoughts were anything but organised. My fingers moved automatically—folding gauze, tucking ointments away, resealing pill bottles—while my mind spiralled in ever-widening circles.

The tent felt suddenly claustrophobic, the canvas walls pressing in like silent observers, holding secrets just out of reach.

Pushing through the flap, I stepped outside into stillness.

The tent's edge brushed the crown of my head, a soft friction that grounded me for the briefest of moments as I emerged into the open. The air was cooler than I expected, and empty. The campsite stretched around me—quiet, still, and oddly hollow, as though it too had paused to make sense of the impossible.

The silence was a blanket draped over the morning, but instead of comfort, it offered space for unease to take root.

Joel’s memory lapse—or refusal to share—clung to me like mist. Was he protecting himself… or someone else?

The idea slid into my thoughts unbidden: Jamie. Had he influenced Joel’s story? Had he told him what—or what not—to say? The bond between them was undeniable, but perhaps it was more than just concern. Perhaps there was something concealed beneath the surface of that loyalty.

I couldn’t ignore the chill of doubt that crept down my spine.

Trust, I was learning, was a fragile thing. And secrets, like cracks beneath glass, had a way of spreading.

I stood there for a moment longer, the sun now casting long shadows across the camp. The tension between truth and silence, between survival and suspicion, seemed suddenly more pronounced than ever.

I didn’t have answers.

But I would find them.