Handshakes in the Dust

"When you can't fix the big things, you find small ones. A dog curled up safe. A hand to shake. Something to do next."

I pushed myself toward the tent, my legs still unsteady beneath me. The canvas flap hung slightly open, and I could hear voices inside — Glenda's calm tones, Uncle Jamie's lower murmur. Whatever they were doing in there, it didn't sound like it needed my help.

But I needed to know about Henri.

I eased the flap aside and stepped into the dim interior, blinking as my eyes adjusted to the change in light. The scene inside hadn't shifted much from when I'd stumbled out — Glenda and Uncle Jamie were still huddled near Joel's motionless form on the mattress, their faces tight with concentration. The smell of something sharp and clinical hung in the air, mixing with the ever-present dust that seemed to coat everything in this place.

Duke was perched on the edge of the mattress, watching the proceedings with that intense focus dogs get when they know something important is happening. His ears were pricked forward, his whole body alert, a furry sentinel keeping vigil over whatever medical miracle Glenda was attempting.

But where was Henri?

My eyes swept the tent's interior, searching the shadows, the corners, the spaces between the scattered supplies. Nothing. I scanned again, slower this time, a thread of worry starting to wind through my chest. If something had happened to Henri on top of everything else—

Then I spotted him.

Far right of the tent, tucked into a small bed I hadn't noticed before, was a familiar ball of white and tan fur. Henri was curled up tight, his nose buried under his tail, looking for all the world like a dog who'd found the one comfortable spot in this whole godforsaken place and had no intention of moving. Classic Henri. The little bugger could sleep through anything.

A small laugh escaped me before I could stop it — more breath than sound, but real nonetheless. Some things didn't change, even when everything else had gone completely to shit.

I backed away from the entrance quietly, not wanting to disturb whatever Glenda was doing. Henri was safe. Duke was safe. That was something, at least. Two small victories in a day that had been nothing but losses.

Outside, the sun still hung in that too-bright sky, warming my face as I stepped clear of the tent's shadow. The dust stretched away in rolling dunes, browns and reds and yellows blending together under the harsh light.

I'd barely taken three steps when a familiar voice reached me.

"What's going on in there?"

I turned to find the man I still hadn’t been introduced to, standing a few metres away, his posture uncertain, his face still carrying that haunted look I'd noticed at the lagoon. Up close, I could see the resemblance to Luke more clearly now — same general build, same shape to the jaw — but Paul's features were somehow softer, less guarded. He looked like a bloke who'd been through hell and hadn't quite figured out how to pretend otherwise.

"Glenda is doing some surgery," I said, the words feeling strange in my mouth. Surgery. In a tent. On a dead man who might not actually be dead.

"Surgery?" The man repeated, his eyes widening.

I swallowed, my throat dry. "Yeah. She's going to stitch his throat back together."

The expression that crossed the man’s face was hard to read — disbelief warring with something that might have been hope, or might have been fear. "So, Glenda really thinks he might be alive?"

I shrugged, because what else was there to do? "Yeah, I guess so."

"Shit." His hand came up to rub at his face, scrubbing across his jaw like he was trying to wipe away the confusion. "This isn't making any sense."

"That's a bit of an understatement."

The words came out sharper than I'd intended, frustration bleeding through despite my best efforts to keep it contained. The man didn't seem offended though — just nodded slowly, his gaze drifting toward the tent like he could see through the canvas to whatever was happening inside.

He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. I watched him, studying his face, trying to get a read on what was going on behind those tired eyes.

There was something about the way he held himself — the slump of his shoulders, the lines of worry etched into his forehead — that made it hard to summon any real anger. He looked like a bloke who was barely holding it together, same as me. Same as all of us, probably.

The man opened his eyes and extended his right hand toward me.

"Paul," he said, his voice steady despite everything. "I'm Luke's brother."

I hesitated. The gesture felt weirdly formal given the circumstances — like we were meeting at a barbecue instead of standing in the dust outside a tent where a doctor was stitching up a murder victim who might or might not be breathing. But there was something genuine in Paul's expression, something that looked like an olive branch being offered.

I reached out and gripped his hand. His palm was rough, his grip firm but not aggressive.

"Kain."

Paul's eyes studied me for a moment, searching. "You know Jamie?"

"Yeah." The word came out heavier than I'd expected, weighted with all the complicated feelings I hadn't had time to process. "He's my uncle."

"I see." Something shifted in Paul's expression — recognition, maybe, or a recalculation of how I fit into this mess. “So, how did you end up here?"

I sighed, the sound coming from somewhere deep in my chest. How to even begin explaining the clusterfuck that had led me to this moment?

"My mother sent me to check on Uncle Jamie," I said, the words tasting like regret. "She hadn't been able to contact him for a few days. So I went over, and Uncle Jamie wasn't there. Luke told me he was out and would be back soon. And that's when it got weird."

"Weird?" Paul prompted, his brow furrowing.

I ran a hand through my hair, grimacing at the grit that came away on my fingers. "Well, I was about to leave, but then Luke suggested I hang around and wait for Uncle Jamie to get home. He insisted that he wouldn't be much longer."

"That doesn't seem too weird," Paul said, his tone skeptical.

"I guess not." I could feel heat creeping up my cheeks, embarrassment at my own stupidity mixing with the lingering anger. "But then I had to go to the bathroom. When I came out, Luke asked if I minded helping him with something downstairs. I can't even remember what he wanted now. It all happened so quickly. As we approached the top of the stairs, there was a bright flash of colours when Luke slid the door open, and then I felt something shove me in the back. I'm pretty certain it was Luke."

Paul's face contorted, a grimace that looked almost painful. "So, Luke had no idea you were coming?"

"I don't think so."

A heavy silence settled between us. Paul looked away, his jaw working like he was chewing on words he didn't want to say.

"I'm sorry for what my brother has done," he said finally, his voice thick with something that sounded like genuine regret. "I really am."

I shrugged, the gesture feeling hollow. "It's not your fault."

"So, if your mother sent you, does that mean you still live with her?" Paul asked, his tone careful now, like he was picking his way through a minefield.

The question hit somewhere tender, somewhere I'd been trying not to think about. Home. Mum. Dad. The manor with its creaky floorboards and too many rooms. And Brianne—

"Both me and my fiancée live with my parents," I heard myself say.

"What's her name?"

"Brianne." Just saying it made my chest ache, a physical pain that had nothing to do with the exertion of the day. "She's six months pregnant."

Paul's expression softened, something like sympathy flickering in his eyes. "Shit," he muttered under his breath.

I looked at him, really looked, searching his face for something I wasn't sure I could name. Hope, maybe. Or permission to ask the question that had been burning in my gut since Glenda had first told me I couldn't go home.

"Is there really no way to go back home?"

Paul shook his head, and the small motion felt like a door slamming shut. "Not that we know of."

I dropped my gaze to the ground, watching the dust settle around my shoes. Six months pregnant. Brianne was six months pregnant, and I was stuck in another dimension with no way back, and our baby was going to be born without me there, and—

"I know this is an unfortunate situation," Paul said, his voice pulling me back from the edge of the spiral. "But the truth is, Jamie and I could really use your help right now."

I looked up, meeting his eyes. There was something in his expression that I recognised — not pity, exactly, but understanding. The look of someone who knew what it felt like to be torn away from the people you loved.

"What can I do to help?"

The question surprised me even as I asked it. I hadn't decided to help. Hadn't consciously chosen to throw in my lot with these people, to start building something in a place I desperately wanted to escape. But the words were out now, and somewhere beneath all the fear and anger and confusion, there was a part of me that needed to be useful. Needed to do something other than lie in the dust and feel sorry for myself.

A small smile tugged at the corner of Paul's mouth — not quite happiness, but something close to it.

"Follow me."