I Must Stay

"Vigilance is easy when you're fresh—it's when exhaustion turns your eyelids to lead that you discover what you're actually made of."

The passage of time felt interminable, each minute stretching into an eternity as I kept my solitary vigil by the fire. There was no way to measure the hours here — no clock, no moon tracking its arc across the sky, no stars wheeling in their familiar patterns. Just the fire and the darkness and the endless, oppressive silence that pressed in from all sides.

I found myself counting my own breaths as a way to mark time. In, out. In, out. Each exhalation visible in the cooling night air, a small proof that I was still here, still alive, still keeping watch over our fragile settlement. Bixbus. The name felt both ridiculous and precious now, a word I'd plucked from nowhere to christen our cluster of tents and abandoned concrete.

My thoughts drifted, as thoughts do in the small hours. Claire's face appeared behind my closed eyes — the way she used to look at me in the early years, before the distance grew between us. The way she looked at me now, with something that might have been disappointment or might have been resignation. I wondered if she was thinking of me. I wondered if the children were asking where Daddy had gone.

Mack would be confused. Rose would be angry. They were too young to understand, and yet old enough to feel abandoned. I'd left without proper goodbyes, without explanations, without any of the reassurances a father owes his children. Luke's phone call had stripped away everything civilised, and I'd run toward danger like a fool following a siren song.

Eventually, the discomfort in my leg grew too insistent to ignore, compelling me to stand and stretch, dispelling the numbness that had crept into my muscles. The burned foot protested every movement, a dull throb that had become my constant companion. The act of standing felt like a small rebellion against the lethargy — proof that I could still move, still function, still resist the weight of exhaustion that pressed down on every limb.

I walked a small circle around the fire, feeling the blood return to my extremities, watching the flames cast my shadow in shifting directions. The darkness beyond the firelight remained absolute, impenetrable. I refused to look at it directly, afraid of what I might see — or imagine I saw — lurking in that blackness.

Compelled by a mixture of concern and a need for movement, I made my way over to Jamie's tent. The action was almost stealthy, a quiet intrusion into the sanctuary we had created for him. My footsteps crunched softly in the dust, announcing my approach to anyone — or anything — listening. I paused at the tent flap, straining my ears for any sound from within.

As I pulled back the flap, the ambient light from the fire cast flickering shadows across the interior, painting a scene of fragile tranquillity. Jamie was lost in sleep, his light snores a comforting sign of life in the silence that filled the space. The sedatives Glenda had given him were doing their work, pulling him down into a rest deep enough to override the pain that had been consuming him.

His face looked younger in sleep, the hard edges softened, the permanent furrow between his brows temporarily smoothed away. I could almost see the person Luke had fallen in love with — before the anger, before the accusations, before everything between them became so impossibly complicated. Whatever their relationship had been, whatever it was now, it had survived things that would have destroyed lesser bonds.

Duke lifted his head to acknowledge my presence, his eyes meeting mine in a silent exchange of understanding before he settled back down. The small dog was curled against Jamie's side, a warm and protective presence that spoke of loyalty beyond circumstance. He had tried to bite Glenda for getting too close, and yet here he was, gentle as a lamb, watching over his person with the patience of a saint.

Henri, unfazed by my intrusion, gave a tired snort and rolled over, his soft snores a constant, somewhat reassuring background noise. The two dogs had positioned themselves as sentries, one on each side of Jamie, and I found myself grateful for their presence. If anything came in the night, they would know before I did. They would sound the alarm that my human senses might miss.

I let the tent flap fall closed, sealing them back into their pocket of safety, and returned to my post by the fire.

The dust, omnipresent and seemingly invasive, offered a soft cushion against the hard ground, yet comfort remained elusive. Every position I tried brought new aches, new complaints from muscles that had been abused for days without proper rest. I shifted frequently, a restless attempt to find even a modicum of ease in the discomfort.

The night seemed to grow heavier around me, pressing in from all directions. I thought of all the nights I'd spent in comfortable beds, in hotel rooms, in my own home beside Claire — nights I'd taken for granted, nights I'd wasted complaining about trivial things. Thread counts and pillow firmness and the precise temperature of the room. What I wouldn't give now for any mattress at all, any pillow, any roof more substantial than canvas.

The restlessness within me grew, an unquiet spirit that refused to be stilled. My mind kept circling back to Glenda's questions, her nervous tapping, her urgency about security. She knew something. She suspected something. And she wasn't telling me what it was.

In response to the creeping anxiety, I fed the fire, throwing several large chunks of wood onto the flames. It was a determined effort to keep the darkness at bay, to ensure that our beacon of light and warmth did not falter. The fire responded, crackling and brightening, a defiant blaze against the encroaching night. Sparks rose in swirling columns, orange and gold against the absolute black of the sky, living things climbing toward a heaven that offered no stars to receive them.

I watched the flames and tried not to think about what might be watching back from the darkness. Last night's terror felt close, too close — the memory of those scraping sounds, that circling presence, the overwhelming certainty that something was out there, something hungry, something patient. The fire had died and something had come. Tonight, the fire would not die. Tonight, I would not fail in this one simple task.

Eventually, I lay down on my back, my gaze drawn upward to the dark, lifeless sky. It was an expanse that offered no comfort, no familiar points of light to anchor to.

The sky pressed down like a weight, like a lid being lowered on a box. I blinked rapidly, fighting against the heaviness of exhaustion that pushed at my eyelids, the weariness a tangible force in the battle to remain vigilant. My eyes burned with the need for sleep. My body ached with the accumulated strain of days without proper rest. Every cell seemed to be crying out for unconsciousness, for the mercy of forgetting, for even a few hours of peace.

I have to stay awake.

I chided myself, the mantra an attempt at a lifeline in the struggle against sleep. The words felt hollow, insufficient against the tide of exhaustion that threatened to pull me under. I thought of the faces depending on me — Jamie drugged and vulnerable in his tent, Glenda resting in the other, Duke and Henri standing their own watch with loyalty I could only aspire to match.

I... must... stay...