4338.206 · July 25, 2018 AD
Ink, Water, and Waiting
A doctor's job is to act. To diagnose, to treat, to fix what's broken. But sometimes the hardest part of medicine is the space between—when the list has been written, the messenger has gone, and all that remains is a tent full of hostility and a river that flows toward a father who might still be out there. Glenda knows how to heal. She's still learning how to wait.
Glenda's arm throbs where Duke bit her. The makeshift bandage—torn from Paul's shirt—will hold for now, but without proper antiseptic, the wound could become something worse. She writes the list quickly, each item a thread connecting this moment to survival. Luke takes it without hesitation and steps back through the Portal into danger she can only imagine.
Then the waiting begins.
Duke guards Jamie like a dragon over treasure, his silence heavier than any growl. Jamie's hostility hasn't softened—Duke doesn't like her. And neither do I.—but Glenda refuses to meet venom with venom. Paul brings water from the river, startlingly cold, almost alive in its purity. She uses it to cleanse Jamie's wound, turning medicine into ritual, turning necessity into the first fragile thread of trust.
Later, at the river's edge, she stands beside Paul and speaks of bridges. He says they can't—no materials, no tools. She says Luke will bring them. Somewhere beyond the water, beyond the dust, her father might still be alive. Building a bridge feels like building a path to find him.
Luke's voice carries across the camp. He's back. The waiting is over.
