Gasp

“There’s a sound a body makes when it doesn’t know if it’s alive or not. Once you’ve heard it, you never forget it.”

The interior of the tent felt as though it were shrinking around me. The canvas walls, once a modest shield against the elements, now loomed oppressive—thin fabric pretending to be sanctuary. The air was thick, laced with sweat, tension, and the faint tang of dried blood. I glanced around, a flicker of anxiety settling in my stomach like a trapped bird.

Luke and Kain were gone.

Their exit had been so quiet, so deliberate, I hadn’t even registered it until the silence they left behind began to hum in my ears. There was no exchange, no word, just absence—the kind that left a cold draft in its wake.

My gaze found Jamie. His eyes met mine, wide and taut, still riding the tailwinds of confrontation and trauma. I tried to keep my voice even, purposeful.

“I’m going to do a horizontal mattress suture. I need a medium saline solution with a broad spectrum of antimicrobial activity, gloves, non-absorbable suture material, forceps, needle…” The list spilled out of me, the cadence of medical necessity—an anchor in a storm of unknowns. But by the time I reached the end, the breath caught in my throat. I paused, the weight of it all settling on my chest like a lead apron.

Jamie didn’t respond.

He just stared at me, unmoving. His expression was blank—completely blank. His eyes, glassy and unfocused, didn’t track the urgency in my voice. It was like I’d started speaking in another language, and each word only carried him further away from me.

Frustration prickled beneath my skin, curling together with fear. I hadn’t expected him to be a surgeon, but I had hoped for more than a dazed silence. The realisation landed with a jolt: this was on me. All of it.

The wound. The mystery. The outcome.

My jaw tightened.

I couldn’t waste time willing someone else into competence. I took a sharp breath and made the call. “You stay here and watch him,” I said, sharper now, but laced with forced calm. I placed my hand firmly on Jamie’s shoulder, gave it a single, meaningful pat—hoping he’d interpret it as both instruction and reassurance. Something to do. Something to hold onto.

He nodded, or perhaps twitched, but it was enough. I rose to my feet, knees stiff from crouching, the motion feeling somehow ceremonial—like I was stepping into a role I hadn’t applied for. The medic. The calm one. The one with answers.

“I won’t be long,” I said, half to him, half to myself. “I’ll just get what I need from the medical tent and come straight back.”

As I ducked through the flap, the outside world greeted me with a rush of air—cooler, cleaner, cutting through the staleness that had clung to my skin inside. The sky was still a washed-out blue, the dust curling gently across the camp like a memory that refused to settle. For one breath, I allowed myself to stand there, eyes closed, lungs filling with something that didn’t smell like worry.

And then I moved.

Each step away from the tent felt like a countdown, the echo of Joel’s shallow breathing ticking in the back of my mind. My thoughts raced—replaying the sequence of the suture, double-checking which tools I needed, mapping their likely position in the supply crates. There was no room for mistakes, not now.

Time wasn’t on our side.

But for the first time since this all began, I had a task I understood. A procedure. A plan.

And that, at least, gave me something to hold onto.

Within the span of minutes, the tent had transformed—no longer a refuge from the dust and noise outside, but a crude operating room, stitched together by necessity and hope. The mattress had become a table, the blankets hastily repurposed as sterile fields, and every item around us now carried weight it had never been designed to bear.

I knelt beside Joel once more, knees pressing into the hard floor beneath, the fabric of my trousers already creased and grimy from earlier work. The gravity of what I was about to do settled heavily across my shoulders, like an invisible cloak I couldn’t shrug off. There was no ceremony, no theatre lighting or backup team—only instinct, experience, and a set of hands that had done far less invasive work than this.

With a deep breath to steady myself, I reached for the gloves. The latex stretched taut over my fingers with a faint snap, the sterile barrier cool and unforgiving. It felt absurdly thin, considering the life it was meant to help protect.

I handed another pair to Jamie without looking away from Joel. “You’d better wear these,” I said, the tone leaving little room for argument. It was less a suggestion than an expectation. He took them without protest, and I heard the soft rustle of the gloves as he pulled them on—quick, rushed, a little clumsy, but he managed.

“Now hold this tray for me,” I continued, my voice calm but deliberate. I handed it to him with the tools already laid out—forceps, scalpel, suture needle—each one gleaming under the filtered daylight like a promise or a threat. Jamie nodded, a jittery, bobbing motion, and took the tray in both hands. His grip wasn’t steady, not yet.

“And try not to tremble too much,” I added, half under my breath, a thin veil of humour over very real concern. “I don’t need any other distractions.”

Another nod. This time smaller, more controlled. He fixed his eyes on the tray and drew in a breath, steadying himself with visible effort.

The silence that followed was thick. It wasn’t emptiness—it was loaded with focus. The kind of silence you could lean on. I turned back to Joel and gently tilted his head to the side, exposing the wound beneath his jawline. I cleaned it first, wiping away what remnants of river silt and congealed blood I could with saline-soaked gauze. The cut gaped slightly, soft tissue edges folding like the pages of an open book.

I’d seen cleaner wounds. I’d seen worse. But none like this. Not one that came with breathing lungs and vacant blue eyes.

I reached for the needle.

“Why a mattress suture?” Jamie asked.

The question startled me—not because it was unwelcome, but because of what it revealed: his mind was still looking for answers, trying to make sense of this anomaly.

“No unnecessary talking during surgery,” I said, my voice clipped and low, leaving no room for discussion. I couldn’t afford to think about how I sounded—I needed to be what this situation required.

Borneo had hardened me. It had given me the tools to act quickly, creatively, when resources were stretched beyond their limits. There, I had worked with children dying of diseases we couldn’t name, had sewn wounds on the floor of rural clinics, had improvised splints from bamboo and IVs from cola bottles when equipment ran out.

But I wasn’t a surgeon.

That truth sat in my chest like a stone.

I knew enough to act. I knew when not to. And I knew that now—right now—I was the only one here who had any chance of keeping this boy tethered to the sliver of life he was somehow clinging to.

I didn’t know what Joel was anymore. But he was breathing.

And until that changed, I would treat him like any other patient on the edge of death.

Because that’s what medicine had taught me: when everything else falls apart, you anchor to the body. You anchor to the work. And so I did.

As I focused intently on Joel’s neck wound, the rest of the world fell away—noise, doubt, time itself—all dimmed to a distant murmur. Everything narrowed to the clean line of the incision and the rhythm of breath I could still, impossibly, see rising in his chest. The edge of the wound gaped slightly beneath the antiseptic light filtering through the canvas, a red slit against pale skin that had no right to be warm, and yet was.

I took hold of the wound’s margin with the forceps, my grip steady and practised. It was muscle memory now. The tool felt as familiar in my hand as a pen or a toothbrush, the by-product of years spent tending to injuries of every sort. But nothing had quite prepared me for this: suturing the throat of a boy who had bled out, been buried, and somehow still breathed.

The needle holder clicked softly as I adjusted it in my grip, and with a careful breath, I pushed the curved needle through the dermis. There was a quiet resistance to the tissue—just enough to remind me that this was real, that this was happening. It wasn’t like the cadaver practice of university days, nor the makeshift dressings of Borneo. This was something else entirely.

As the point of the needle approached the far edge of the wound, I moved to catch it. A fraction too fast.

Instinct surged ahead of discipline. My hand twitched, reaching to grab it directly.

Bare fingers.

I caught myself.

A jolt ran through me—brief but sharp—as I withdrew my hand, reprimanding myself silently. No. That would have broken sterility. The forceps. Use the forceps.

It was a tiny mistake, a reflex only half-formed, but it underscored everything: the stakes, the pressure, the strain I was under. I adjusted my grip and resumed, more cautious now. Instinct keeps you alive. Training keeps others alive. That was the rule.

Then—clatter.

The sound of instruments rattling on the tray beside me jolted me back into the room. Jamie’s hands had trembled just enough to shift the tray’s balance. Nothing fell, thankfully, but the sound was loud in the thick quiet of the tent.

I glanced at him over my shoulder, forceps still in hand. “You okay there, Jamie?” I asked, my tone softening as I caught the tightness around his mouth, the slight sheen of sweat above his brow. “You’re not about to pass out?”

“No, I’m fine. Sorry,” he murmured, voice quieter than I expected—almost childlike. It disarmed me. For all his bravado earlier, this was someone suddenly stripped of certainty. I hadn’t anticipated his vulnerability, but strangely, it calmed something in me. Made the moment feel more real. More human.

“You’re doing a great job,” he added after a second, eyes fixed on the tray as though afraid it might betray him again.

I allowed myself the faintest smile. “We’ve a long way to go yet,” I replied, not unkindly. The words held more weight than I’d intended. This wasn’t just about stitching flesh. It was about surviving whatever this was.

Turning back to Joel, I steadied myself. Another breath. Another pass of the needle.

With renewed focus, I pierced the opposite side of the incision. The tip met resistance again—the thick dermal layer giving way reluctantly. I guided it carefully through, feeling the precise give of tissue, then the slight snap as it emerged on the far side. The needle glinted, catching a sliver of light.

Each motion now required everything—focus, care, intent. It wasn’t just surgery; it was a conversation between body and instrument, a silent negotiation for life.

And so I continued, one stitch at a time, holding fast to the work, because that was all I could do.

Next, I meticulously backwards-loaded the needle into its holder. It was a delicate manoeuvre—one of those refined techniques that required both patience and precision. The needle had to sit just so, at the exact angle needed for the next pass, its curve aligned with my intention, not just the wound. The margin for error was small; even a slight misalignment could compromise the clean closure I was working toward.

This was where instinct met discipline. The kind of work that left no room for anything else—no panic, no reflection, just method. My gloved fingers moved with quiet certainty, my eyes narrowing to the dimensions of flesh, thread, and space.

I proceeded in vertical alignment with the previous puncture site, the suture path clean and precise. The needle pierced the skin smoothly, the entry quiet, almost imperceptible—just the whisper of steel through tissue. Each stitch was a decision. Each knot a promise to hold the body together.

And through it all, I remained anchored. Not just to the task—but to this moment. My breath synchronised with the rhythm of the work. The subtle resistance of dermis, the exact point where tension held and no further, the way the skin tucked neatly together—these were things I knew. And in a world that had unravelled, knowing something mattered.

After pulling the final suture to the right tension—close enough to approximate the wound without strangling the tissue—I secured the knot with an instrument tie. A final flick. A twist. A cinch. Done.

The last suture in place, I sat back on my knees, my body giving in to the fatigue I hadn’t let myself feel until now. My bum settled onto my heels, my spine curving slightly forward. It wasn’t quite rest, but it was enough—a pause, earned and necessary. The bubble of focused intensity I’d been moving within, the silence of single-minded concentration, finally released me.

“We did it!” I exclaimed, the words escaping with a faint breath of wonder. My voice held a lift, not triumph exactly, but relief. A momentary lightness. The task was complete. The wound was closed. Joel hadn’t deteriorated further—not yet.

But the silence that followed reminded me it wasn’t over.

Jamie’s voice broke into the space I’d tried to fill with reassurance. “So, he’ll be okay now?” he asked.

The question hovered, thick with hope. Too thick.

I turned to look at him, and the smile that had begun to bloom faded as quickly as it came. I couldn’t hold it. Not in good faith.

His eyes were wide, searching. Wanting something I didn’t have the authority to give. Reassurance. Certainty. Answers.

But I had none.

Deep down, beneath the measured cadence of my medical training, beneath the muscle memory of suturing, a gnawing truth pulsed. Joel’s condition defied everything I understood. The absence of bleeding, the faint breath, the vivid blue eyes that didn’t blink—all of it hovered on the edge of life as we knew it. And yet… something lingered.

Something I couldn’t name.

This wasn’t a case of blood loss and trauma. This was something else.

The sutures were clean, yes. The wound was sealed. But stitches couldn’t fix what we didn’t understand. Joel’s body was here. But was he?

I glanced back at him, at the boy on the mattress whose chest rose and fell like clockwork, but whose soul—if it remained—seemed out of reach.

The smile was gone now, and in its place, a quiet unease.

No… I wasn’t convinced Joel was truly alive in the way we understood life.

And that terrified me more than any bleeding wound ever could.

Then, without warning, the tent was pierced by the sound of Joel gasping for air—a sudden, desperate, guttural heave that filled the space with primal terror. The sound was jagged, unnatural, like a fish flung onto a dry riverbank, flailing for an element it could no longer navigate. It tore through the stillness, each ragged intake of breath a jarring assault on the illusion of calm we’d only just begun to rebuild.

My body reacted before my mind could catch up.

"Shit!" I yelped, my limbs jolting backwards, uncoordinated and graceless as I fell hard onto the tent floor. The metal tray, perched precariously beside me, went skittering in all directions, its contents clattering in a chaotic cascade—scissors, clamps, forceps—all hitting the ground with the cold clang of a bell tolling for something we hadn’t named yet.

The sterile field was gone. The order we’d created unravelled in seconds.

"What's happening?" Jamie cried out, panic thick in his voice. His hands twitched as if unsure whether to reach for Joel or retreat entirely. His question wasn’t just seeking information—it was a confession. He was scared. So was I.

I scrambled back towards Joel, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it echo in my ears. The gasps were irregular now, punctuated by shallow flutters, each one sounding like it might be the last. I leaned in close, watching the wild rise of his chest, the violent twitching of his limbs—convulsions. Real. Sudden. Terrifying.

My brain tore through possibilities, uselessly cataloguing and discarding them in quick succession. Pulmonary spasm? Cardiac seizure? Neurological shock? None of it fit. None of it explained this.

"Help him," Jamie said, and there was no room for discussion in his tone. It was raw instinct—human, desperate. The helpless demand of someone watching a loved one vanish before their eyes.

But I didn’t know how to answer that call. Not this time.

My hands trembled as I reached forward, placing them firmly on Joel’s arms, trying to stabilise him, to stop the flailing before he injured himself—or us. His body bucked against my grip, but there was no awareness in his eyes, no indication of pain or consciousness. Just motion. Just chaos.

"I don't understand," I breathed, and the words came out in a tight, broken whisper. "This is out of my scope. I'm not trained for this."

It felt like betrayal, saying it aloud—like abandoning my post. But it was the truth. I was a general practitioner, not a neurologist, not an exorcist, not whatever kind of healer this madness required.

The convulsions intensified for a moment, his muscles locking and shuddering beneath my palms. His throat, newly stitched, stretched grotesquely with each spasm, the sutures holding but the image haunting.

Then, just as abruptly as it had begun, it stopped.

Stillness.

Joel’s eyelids fluttered shut, the breath halting. His arms slackened beneath my grip. His chest went still.

It was like someone had flicked a switch.

I held on a moment longer, unsure if another seizure was lurking just beneath the surface. But no. Nothing. Not even a tremor. I slowly let go, my fingers tingling with adrenaline and the ache of resistance. I shifted back, distancing myself not out of fear, but reverence. Like stepping back from the edge of something unknowable.

The silence that followed was cavernous.

"I'm sorry, Jamie. He really isn't alive," I said at last, the words scraping their way out of my throat. They tasted like ash, like failure. I couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t bear to see what my truth would do to his hope.

The weight of grief descended in the tent like smoke—thick, cloying, impossible to push away. It curled into the seams of the canvas, settled into the creases of our clothes, our lungs, our silence. I sat there in that heavy quiet, unmoving, my knees pressed into the ground, the distance between Jamie and me suddenly vast. Not in space, but in sorrow. Between us stretched everything we had just seen. And everything we still didn’t understand.

Jamie’s response shattered the silence with a single, involuntary sniff—a sound small in scale, but vast in meaning. Then came the words, jagged and hoarse, cutting through the tent’s stillness. “Can’t you try to resuscitate him?” he asked, voice catching on every syllable, like he had to drag each word up through the weight of his grief.

I turned to him.

The sight of Jamie’s tear-streaked face stilled my breath. His eyes, bloodshot and rimmed red, brimmed with desperation. There was no anger in them now—only raw pleading, wide and open, the kind that leaves no room for armour. Something in me fractured.

It felt as though someone had reached into my chest and torn out a fistful of something soft and vital. I could hardly bear to look at him, and yet I couldn’t look away. His pain was mine. Echoed, mirrored. But I was the one with the knowledge—the burden of explanation.

“He has no blood for his heart to pump around his body,” I said quietly. The words clung to my lips like frost. Clinical, accurate… final.

The moment they left me, I wished I could take them back. Not because they were untrue—but because they sounded too much like resignation. Too much like surrender.

“I’m sorry, Jamie,” I whispered again, though I wasn’t sure which part I was apologising for—Joel’s condition, or the fact that I had no miracle to offer. A single tear escaped me, warm against my skin before it cooled in the tent’s heavy air.

The grief settled deeper, pressing at my ribs, curling cold around my heart. I wanted so desperately to have something to give—to stop the tide of despair now breaking over Jamie. But there was no remedy for this. Just the ache of helplessness and the cruel arithmetic of limits.

Then his hand gripped my arm.

It startled me. His touch was strong, urgent—so at odds with the numbness I’d begun to accept. His eyes locked onto mine with a force that pulled me upright again.

“We have to take him back to the lagoon,” he said, firm and unwavering.

The words struck me as surreal—unmoored from logic, from medicine. They cut through the fog of sorrow like a shard of something bright and jagged.

“But why?” I asked, confused, hollow. My head tilted, an unconscious protest. “What good will that do him now?”

Jamie didn’t hesitate. “We have to try.”

His hands moved to Joel’s body, positioning themselves under his shoulders with a care that made my chest ache. There was a sacredness in the gesture, a devotion that defied reason. Jamie was refusing to let go. Not out of denial, but conviction.

“It’s no use, Jamie. He’s gone,” I whispered, willing my voice to be gentle, not cruel. Each word was an anchor dragging us down toward a reality we hadn’t yet reached. “He’s gone.”

“Please, Glenda.”

He looked at me then. Really looked.

His gaze, soaked in tears, didn’t plead for logic—it pleaded for something far more human. For solidarity. For compassion. For me to meet him in that impossible place between hope and certainty and just stand there with him.

I felt the sting of another tear slipping down my cheek. The futility of it all pressed heavily on me. Joel—whatever he was, wherever he now resided—wouldn’t be saved by water or memory. But standing by while Jamie unravelled seemed its own form of cruelty.

There was no medical sense in it. No pragmatic reason to comply. But sometimes action is the only medicine we have. Not for the body—but for the heart.

Still, as I looked down at Joel’s still face and felt Jamie’s hope pressing in like a weight I couldn’t bear, a quiet dread unfurled inside me. A fear not of failure—but of what might follow if this final hope, too, dissolved before our eyes. That by helping Jamie lift this body—by entertaining the idea that maybe—I might lead him deeper into despair, not away from it.

The tightrope between compassion and truth had never felt so narrow.