Guardian of Bacon

"There's something profoundly absurd about celebrating your resurrected son eating a single bean whilst simultaneously defending breakfast from a dog who transforms into a predator the moment food appears."

Relief barely scratched the surface of what I felt when Duke and I returned with the bucket of water to find Glenda had moved on from medical matters to cooking.

The walk to the lagoon and back had been exactly what I'd needed—space to breathe, time to let the tension bleed out through my feet with each step. Duke had trotted beside me in companionable silence, occasionally veering off to investigate some interesting smell before circling back to my side. No demands. No complicated emotions. Just simple, honest companionship.

Now, the morning had stretched into something approaching mid-day, and I'd spent most of it holed up in the tent with Joel. Consciously avoiding the others. The canvas walls offered sanctuary—a place where the complexities of our group dynamics could be temporarily forgotten, where I could focus on the simple act of being present for my son.

My son.

The phrase still felt foreign, like wearing someone else's clothes. But the protective instinct that came with it was as natural as breathing.

"Smells good."

Joel's voice broke through my reflections—a croak that betrayed the discomfort he was still working through, but words nonetheless. Real words. Progress.

I glanced at him, noticing how even that simple statement seemed to require effort. The bandaged finger, the healing throat, the body still recovering from the impossible—everything about him spoke of fragility. But his eyes were alert, tracking, alive.

"Do you think you could eat?"

Hope threaded through my voice despite my attempts at neutrality. A silent plea that maybe, just maybe, he was feeling stronger.

"I could try."

Weak but determined. That seemed to be Joel's default setting—pushing forward despite everything that should have kept him down.

As if summoned by the conversation, the unmistakable aroma of bacon drifted into the tent. Rich, savoury, impossibly domestic given our circumstances. My mouth watered before I could stop it, my stomach offering its enthusiastic endorsement with a growl I hoped Joel couldn't hear.

It's true. It does smell good.

There was something about bacon that felt like a warm embrace—comfort food that cut through the chill of uncertainty the way nothing else could. For a moment, the smell transported me somewhere else entirely. A kitchen. A home. A life that made sense.

"I'll go and get you some," I said, pushing myself to my feet.

Stepping out of the tent's dim interior, Duke brushed past me with an urgency that brought a smile to my face despite everything.

His excitement was a blur of white-and-brown fur as he darted toward Glenda, positioning himself beside her with his tail whipping back and forth in a frenzy of barely contained anticipation. The simple joy of it—a dog excited about food, nothing more complicated than that—was almost therapeutic to witness.

Glenda, caught up in the moment, broke off a small piece of bacon and offered it to Duke.

He accepted it with the dignified grace that had always defined him. Gentle. Measured. His mannerisms carrying a refinement that seemed almost out of place in the wilderness. Duke had always had this sophisticated approach to life, taking treats with the delicate precision of a gentleman receiving a calling card.

That's my boy. Always the class act.

Then Henri arrived.

His unmistakable foxy tail signalled his approach before the rest of him came into view, the bushy appendage moving with wild enthusiasm that seemed to capture his entire being's excitement. His movements were sudden, focused, driven by a singular objective that eclipsed all other considerations.

Food.

"Careful, he's a little…"

My warning trailed off as Glenda extended a piece of bacon toward Henri.

In an instant, his mouth expanded with a speed and voracity that defied his small frame. Jaws that had been deceptively normal-sized a moment ago seemed to unhinge like a snake preparing to swallow something twice its size.

"Shit!"

Glenda's reaction was swift, her hand retreating from Henri's considerably-less-than-gentle approach. The moment was startling—a reminder that Henri's placid demeanour concealed depths of food-related aggression that could catch the unwary off guard.

"Shark," I finished with a laugh.

The comparison between the two dogs had never been more apparent. Duke, accepting treats with the measured grace of a Victorian gentleman. Henri, transforming into a ravenous predator at the mere sight of anything edible.

"But he's always so placid." Glenda's gaze fixed on Henri as he devoured the bacon with only token effort at chewing—more swallowing than eating, the food barely touching sides on its way down.

"Unless there's food involved." I echoed my own observations, watching Henri lick his lips and immediately begin scanning for more. "And he always seems to know when and where."

It was a trait that had fascinated and bewildered me for years—Henri's uncanny ability to appear precisely at the moment food materialised, as if guided by some internal radar that tracked edible objects within a hundred-metre radius.

Back home, he'd be asleep on the couch, and somehow he'd know the exact second I opened the refrigerator. Every single time.

"Hmph." Glenda's response carried a mix of resignation and amusement, her hands now safely tucked away from Henri's eager investigation of her general vicinity.

"No more, Henri. You've already had your breakfast." I addressed the small dog with a tone that brooked no argument.

Henri, for all his food-driven intensity, seemed to understand. His disappointment was palpable—the drooping posture, the mournful eyes—but he didn't push further. Just positioned himself at a strategic distance, ready to exploit any lapse in vigilance.

"You need to make sure you eat some breakfast too."

Glenda's words carried practical concern as she assembled a plate with hands that had clearly done this a thousand times before. Several rashers of bacon, a generous spoonful of scrambled eggs—the kind of breakfast that belonged to lazy Sunday mornings, not survival camps in alien dimensions.

"Thank you." My gratitude was genuine as I accepted the plate, the warmth from the food seeping into my hands. "Is there some for Joel too?"

The concern for my son was ever-present—a constant hum in the background of my thoughts, influencing every action, every decision.

"Of course." Glenda reached for a second plate. "Have some beans too." She indicated for me to lower my plate again.

"Thanks, smells good."

I let the aroma wash over me, allowing myself a moment to simply appreciate the sensory experience. The smell was comforting, familiar—and for a fleeting second, it felt as though we could be anywhere else in the world. A campsite on Earth. A morning like any other.

My stomach responded with a loud, unmistakable growl that shattered any pretence of composure.

Subtle, Jamie. Very subtle.

"Paul! Kain!" Glenda's call was robust, carrying across the campsite as she summoned the others for breakfast. She placed the frying pan on a nearby log, her posture shifting into distribution mode.

"Where are they?"

I bit into a piece of bacon as I asked, the savoury taste a sharp contrast to the bitterness of our situation. My thoughts flickered briefly to another morning—the routine shattered by Luke's demand to collect Paul from the airport. The memory served as a reminder of how quickly everything had spiralled since then.

Has it really only been a few days? Feels like a fucking lifetime.

"Drop Zone. I'm surprised they're not back by now." Glenda's tone was casual but underlined with something that might have been concern.

"Hmph."

My interest in dissecting Luke's decisions or contemplating the wider implications of our predicament had worn thin. My priority was clear, crystallised into something simpler than all the complicated dynamics swirling around us.

I have a son to take care of. Everything else is noise.

"Thanks," I repeated to Glenda, turning toward the tent with Joel's plate in hand.

"I'd like to be present when you feed him."

Glenda's words trailed after me, her steps echoing softly as she followed.

The irritation was instant—quick and fierce, rising up before I could temper it.

"Feed him!? He's not a dog!"

The comparison, even if unintended, grated against my already frayed nerves. Joel wasn't an animal to be fed. He was my son—a grown man who'd survived having his throat cut, who'd died and come back to life, who deserved dignity even in his weakened state.

Especially in his weakened state.

"Speaking of dogs, I wouldn't leave any of the food unattended while the little shark is circling."

My attempt to redirect, to bridge the gap her comment had widened with humour, did little to soothe the annoyance still prickling beneath my skin.

"Hmm." Glenda's response carried a practical note as she returned to her position by the fire, ready to defend the meal from Henri's opportunistic advances. "Let me know how you get on then."

"Sure."

The word left me with a mix of resignation and renewed focus on the task at hand. With Duke at my heels—a silent, comforting presence who required nothing from me except acknowledgment—I made my way back to the tent.

The canvas flaps offered privacy, however illusory, in the vast openness of our surroundings. Stepping inside, the muted light casting long shadows across the interior, I presented the plate to Joel.

"Here, see how you go." I tried to keep my voice steady, encouraging. "You might need to leave the bacon if it's too hard to chew or scratchy on your throat."

Joel's response was nonverbal—a silent nod as he carefully selected a single bean from the plate. His movements were deliberate, cautious, as he placed it into his mouth.

That's it. Take your time. There's no rush.

I watched him chew slowly, swallow with visible effort, then reach for another bean. The simple act of eating—something I'd taken for granted my entire life—had become an achievement worth celebrating.

He's doing it. He's actually eating.

The relief that washed through me was almost overwhelming.

Then, without warning, a scream shattered the calm.

The sound tore through the morning—sharp, terrifying, filled with the kind of raw terror that bypassed rational thought and went straight to the survival centres of the brain. Every nerve in my body snapped to attention, every sense heightening in response to the primal alarm.

I was out of the tent in an instant, my body moving before my mind had finished processing what I'd heard.

"I'll go." Glenda's voice reached me, steady and decisive as she rose to her feet. "You watch the food."

Our agreement was silent—a mutual understanding forged in the half-second of crisis. Someone needed to investigate. Someone needed to guard the camp. The division of labour happened without discussion, without debate.

I hurried toward the campfire, the scream still echoing in my mind. The air seemed to thicken around me, heavy with anticipation and dread. Henri sat beside the frying pan, his earlier food-driven intensity replaced by an alertness that suggested even he understood something was wrong.

Duke pressed against my leg, his body tense, his gaze fixed on the direction of the sound.

I watched Glenda disappear over the dune's crest, her figure silhouetted briefly against the red-brown sky before dropping from view. The seconds stretched, each one loaded with possibilities I didn't want to contemplate.

What now? What fresh horror has this place conjured up?

The grimace on my face reflected the turmoil within—the frustration at yet another interruption, the fear of what the scream might signify, the exhaustion of constantly bracing for the next blow.

And then a single thought pierced through the confusion, crystallising with unwelcome clarity.

Luke is here.

The realisation carried weight I wasn't prepared for. Luke's arrival meant confrontation. Meant dealing with all the things I'd been avoiding since last night's impasse.

Of course he'd arrive with a scream. Of course there'd be drama. With Luke, there's always fucking drama.

The implications spiralled outward, each possibility worse than the last. Had something happened at the Portal? Had Luke been hurt? Had he brought someone else through—another person dragged into this nightmare without consent?

Or was the scream about something else entirely? Something I couldn't predict, couldn't prepare for, couldn't control?

I stood there by the campfire, guardian of bacon and beans, while Glenda rushed toward whatever crisis had announced itself. The irony wasn't lost on me—relegated to food duty while others dealt with the emergency, my protective instincts stretched between Joel in the tent and the unknown danger beyond the dune.

Henri sniffed hopefully toward the frying pan.

"Don't even think about it," I muttered, my voice carrying an edge that had nothing to do with the dog.

Duke pressed closer, his solid warmth a small comfort against the uncertainty closing in from all directions.

Just one morning. Is that too much to ask? Just one fucking morning without crisis, without drama, without the universe finding new ways to complicate everything?

Apparently, it was.