Frayed Nerves

"Growing up with three sisters taught me one useful skill: when the shouting starts, find somewhere else to be."

I woke to voices.

Not loud ones — just the murmur of conversation drifting across the camp, words I couldn't quite make out, punctuated by the soft rustle of wind stirring up dust. My eyes felt glued shut, my body heavy and uncooperative, like someone had filled my limbs with wet sand while I slept.

The morning light was brutal. Even through my closed eyelids, I could feel it pressing down, harsh and unforgiving. This place didn't do gentle dawns. It went from dark to blazing in what felt like minutes, the sun climbing that wrong-blue sky with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.

I forced my eyes open and immediately regretted it.

The camp was already moving. Glenda and Paul were up, their figures visible near one of the tents, their words carried on the breeze but too faint to catch. Small plumes of dust drifted across the ground, stirred up by their movements, creating a haze that hung over everything like a veil.

Paul's voice reached me as he ducked into Jamie's tent, the canvas flap swinging behind him. "I'll just grab my suitcase first."

Suitcase. Right. Paul had luggage. Actual belongings, packed and brought through the portal with some semblance of planning. Unlike me, who'd arrived with nothing but the clothes on my back and a set of car keys I hadn't expected to use again.

I dragged myself upright, every muscle protesting the movement. The sleeping bag had done its job — I wasn't cold, wasn't aching from the hard ground — but the remnants of last night's whiskey had taken up residence behind my eyes, a dull throb that pulsed in time with my heartbeat.

What I wouldn't give for a coffee.

Glenda looked up as I approached, her face carrying the particular tiredness of someone who'd been awake for hours while others slept. She studied me for a moment, something like concern flickering in her expression.

"Have you seen Uncle Jamie this morning?" I asked, my voice coming out rough and croaky. The words felt like sandpaper in my throat.

"I have," she replied, turning to face me properly. "You should go and visit with him."

There was weight behind the words. Not quite a warning, but something close to it. The kind of tone that told you the situation wasn't simple, that you should brace yourself for whatever came next.

I nodded, reaching up to rub the back of my neck, trying to work out the stiffness that had settled there overnight. My arms felt like they belonged to someone else as I stretched them above my head, joints popping in a way that was either satisfying or concerning, depending on your perspective.

Paul emerged from Uncle Jamie's tent, a wheeled suitcase trailing behind him, leaving faint tracks in the dust.

"Do you have a preference to side?" he called out, his voice casual.

I stared at him, my foggy brain struggling to parse the question. Preference to side? What the hell was he on about? The words bounced around inside my skull without finding anything to stick to.

Glenda must have seen the confusion on my face. "You and Paul are moving to the third tent," she explained, her tone matter-of-fact.

Right. The tent where I'd dumped the sleeping bags yesterday. Made sense — Uncle Jamie would want to stay with Joel, and Glenda needed the medical tent for her supplies.

"They're both the same, really," I called back to Paul, stretching again, feeling my sides pop in a way that bordered on indecent.

"I'm going for a walk to the Drop Zone," Paul announced, reappearing from his brief visit inside our new accommodation. "Take stock of what Luke's left us."

Glenda's expression soured slightly. "I doubt you'll find anything new. I haven't seen him yet this morning. But I'm sure there might be useful things we didn't notice before."

Their conversation drifted into practicalities — supplies, inventory, plans for the day. I found myself tuning out, the words washing over me without registering. The headache was getting worse, a persistent throb that made thinking feel like wading through treacle.

I needed a moment. Needed to get away from the chatter and the activity and the constant reminders of where I was and what I'd lost.

"Hey, Uncle Jamie," I said as I stepped through the tent flap, my voice pitched low, cautious.

The reaction was immediate and unexpected.

"Anyone else want to interrupt us this morning!?" Uncle Jamie snapped, his eyes rolling with a frustration that seemed wildly out of proportion to my simple greeting.

Heat flooded my face, embarrassment burning across my cheeks. I hadn't done anything wrong — just walked in, just said hello — but the anger in his voice made me feel like a kid who'd tracked mud across a clean floor.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt," I stammered, already backing toward the exit, my feet tangling in my haste to escape.

"Kain, wait."

Uncle Jamie's voice had changed, the sharp edges smoothing into something softer. I stopped, turning back reluctantly, my heart still hammering from the unexpected confrontation.

"It's... It's okay if you stay," he said, and there was genuine apology in his tone now.

The relief that washed through me was almost physical, a tension I hadn't realised I was holding finally releasing from my shoulders. I took a breath, trying to steady myself.

"I... I just wanted to see how Joel was doing," I managed, my body shifting nervously. Conflict had always been part of life in a house full of sisters, but I'd spent years learning to avoid it, to duck and weave around arguments rather than get caught in the middle.

The tent's interior was dim, the canvas filtering the harsh morning light into something more bearable. Jamie's face came into focus as my eyes adjusted — he looked tired. More than tired. The lines around his eyes had deepened since yesterday, and there was a weariness in his expression that went beyond simple lack of sleep.

Joel lay on the mattress, pale against the darker fabric, his eyes open and tracking our movements. The wound on his throat had been stitched closed, the dark thread standing out against his grey-white skin. He looked better than yesterday — still wrong, still unsettling, but less like a corpse and more like someone recovering from something terrible.

"I'm fine," Joel whispered, his voice barely audible.

I blinked, caught off guard. Yesterday he'd been silent, staring at nothing, more mannequin than man. Now he was talking.

"Oh, you can talk now?"

"Getting there," Joel croaked, a grimace of pain crossing his features.

Jamie moved closer to the mattress, his whole demeanour shifting into something protective, almost paternal. "You'd better give your voice a rest and have more water. Keep your throat hydrated," he advised, pressing a cup gently against Joel's cracked lips before helping him settle back against the mattress.

I watched the interaction, trying to make sense of it. Uncle Jamie barely knew this kid — Joel had been a stranger yesterday, a dead body floating in the river. But the way Uncle Jamie hovered over him, fussed over him, it was like watching someone tend to family.

Strange. All of it was strange.

The tent flap rustled behind me, and Glenda pushed through, her entrance abrupt enough to shatter what little peace had settled over the moment.

"You ready?" she asked, her tone brisk, businesslike.

My eyes went to the bag she carried. Something sharp was pressing against the side of it, the outline visible through the fabric. Medical equipment. Tools for whatever procedure she had planned.

A wave of dread rolled through me, my imagination conjuring images I definitely didn't want to see.

"You don't need me, do you?" The words came out faster than I'd intended, my voice pitched higher with anxiety.

"No, Jamie and I can handle it," Glenda replied, her response offering zero reassurance. "He's getting good practice."

"I'm not your fucking lap-dog," UncleJamie snapped, his eyes flashing.

And there it was again — that anger, simmering just below the surface, ready to boil over at the slightest provocation. Something had happened between them, some tension I wasn't privy to, and I had no desire to get caught in the crossfire.

"I'm going to give myself a quick wash," I mumbled, already retreating toward the exit, my feet carrying me away from the uncomfortable scene as fast as they could manage without actually running.

The cool morning air hit me like a blessing as I stepped outside. I gulped it down, filling my lungs, trying to clear my head of the suffocating tension that had hung heavy in the tent.

The sun was climbing higher now, its warmth a counterpoint to the chill that had settled in my bones. I stood there for a moment, letting the light wash over my face, and tried to convince myself that things would get better.

It didn't work.

But at least I was out of that tent.