Inter-Dimensional Takeaway

"Turns out workplace politics are universal—even in another dimension, someone's angling for a middle-management title while everyone else rolls their eyes. At least the curry's decent."

The campfire crackled and roared, casting a warm, flickering light that danced across the faces of the small circle of settlers gathered around it.

The flames reminded me of camping trips I'd never actually been on. Mum and I couldn't afford holidays like that—no tents, no gear, no petrol money to drive anywhere worth camping. But I'd seen campfires in films, read about them in books. They looked exactly like this: orange and gold and alive, throwing shadows that made everyone look slightly mysterious.

The air was rich with the scent of burning wood, and the occasional gust of breeze would send spirals of smoke twirling towards the sky.

Like miniature galaxies, I thought, watching the embers spiral upward. Stars being born and dying in seconds.

I found myself seated on a log next to Jamie, my recently discovered father, feeling an overwhelming sense of being amidst a crowd yet isolated in my thoughts.

There were eight of us around the fire, plus dogs. More people than I'd been around in months. My social circle back home had shrunk to Mum, Garry at the depot, and the occasional awkward conversation with Mrs. Johnson about her azaleas.

I had pushed myself to join this group for dinner, driven by a desire to forge a connection with my father, but now that I was here, amidst the chatter and camaraderie, I felt adrift, unsure of how to navigate these newfound relationships.

Like being the new kid at school. Except the school is in another dimension and everyone got here by being pushed through a magical portal.

Jamie, seated beside me, seemed equally lost in his own world, his gaze distant, perhaps pondering thoughts and emotions as complex as my own.

I wondered what he was thinking. Whether he was regretting bringing me here—not that he'd had much choice in the matter. Whether he was trying to figure out how to be a father to a nineteen-year-old stranger the same way I was trying to figure out how to be a son.

Meanwhile, Luke was making his way around the camp with a deft hand, distributing a variety of Indian dishes with a hospitality that seemed as natural to him as breathing.

The containers were proper takeaway containers, the kind you got from Indian restaurants in Hobart. Plastic lids, plastic trays, the works. Somehow, Luke had brought a curry dinner through an inter-dimensional portal.

That's one way to do takeaway delivery, I thought. Skip the traffic entirely. Just pop through to another world.

"Chicken tikka?" Luke offered to Karen.

I found myself trying to tune out the conversation, my mind wrestling with a myriad of emotions.

Karen was older than the others—late fifties, maybe—with the weathered hands and practical clothing of someone who spent more time outdoors than in. Her husband Chris sat beside her, a bloke in his mid-forties with an easy smile and the kind of relaxed posture that suggested he'd be equally comfortable at a barbecue or a board meeting.

"Lois, sit!" Glenda's voice cut through the air, her command directed at the excited retriever.

My gaze briefly shifted from the food to the dogs around us.

Duke lay exhausted between Jamie's feet, while Henri was settled near the campfire, radiating a sense of contentment in the warmth.

Dogs have the right idea about life, I thought, watching Henri's eyes droop with sleepy satisfaction. Find a warm spot, lie down, wait for someone to drop food.

"And butter chicken for you," Luke announced as he handed a container to Jamie.

I watched Jamie's finger trail up the side of the container, stealing a taste, a small action that somehow brought a sense of normality to the scene.

He does that too.

Mum did the same thing—tested food before properly eating it, a quick taste from the finger to check the temperature or flavour. I'd picked up the habit myself. Strange, finding this tiny genetic echo in a man I'd known for three days.

But then, as Luke bypassed me to approach Glenda, Jamie's protective instinct flared.

"Hey, what about Joel?" he asked, his voice tinged with a mix of concern and irritation as he glared at Luke.

Oh, here we go.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realise he could eat," Luke responded, a hint of confusion in his voice.

"Of course, he can fucking eat!" Jamie's response was sharp, his eyes locked onto Luke's, conveying a sense of paternal protectiveness that was new to me.

The outburst drew glances from around the fire. I felt my face heat—and not from the flames.

Brilliant. First proper dinner with everyone and I'm already causing drama.

Moments later, Luke stood before me, his demeanour apologetic.

"What do you want?" he asked.

I shrugged, my uncertainty palpable.

What do I want? The question had layers. Food, obviously. But also answers. Understanding. A way to contact Mum. A manual for how to navigate this insane situation.

My voice, hoarse with nerves, struggled to find its place in this new dynamic.

"Beef madras okay?" Luke queried.

"Sure," I replied, my response brief yet laced with gratitude.

The offer of food, a simple gesture, nonetheless symbolised an acceptance into this group of strangers.

Beef madras. Mum had made that once, from a jar. She'd added too much cream and not enough spice, and we'd both pretended it was good while secretly reaching for the toast. But even that memory—that mediocre curry on a Wednesday night in Glenorchy—felt precious now.

My relationship with Jamie was still a budding one, and understanding my place among these new faces was like navigating a labyrinth with no map.

Or like driving a delivery route in a suburb you've never been to, with a sat-nav that's gone offline and street signs that are all in a different language.

Yet, in this moment, with the warmth of the fire and the shared meal, I felt a burgeoning sense of belonging to this makeshift family.

As I ate, my thoughts wandered, tracing the serpentine path my life had taken to lead me here.

Three days ago, I was loading packages onto a truck. Three days ago, I had a job, a routine, a mother who knew where I was.

Three days ago, I was alive.

Well. Still alive now, technically. Just... differently.

It was overwhelming, this tapestry of events and emotions, yet there was an eagerness within me to embrace this new chapter, to learn and grow within this community that was slowly becoming a part of me.

Paul's abrupt clearing of his throat cut through the evening chatter like a sharp blade, instantly commanding everyone's attention around the campfire.

He didn't wait for the murmurs to subside before launching into his announcement.

"I need everyone to check in at the Drop Zone regularly to see whether Luke has brought any of your belongings or perhaps there might be something there that you need."

Drop Zone. The place where stuff from Earth arrived. Where my clothes were supposed to be, if Luke had actually gone to my house like Paul had said.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Jamie's reaction.

His eyes rolled in a manner that was both subtle and expressive, a silent but eloquent commentary on Paul's suggestion.

It didn't take much to realise that my father wasn't exactly on board with the idea.

Shocking. Jamie disagreeing with Paul. Alert the media.

"That sounds reasonable enough," Chris chimed in, his voice carrying a note of positivity that seemed to be his trademark.

Chris had that energy—the kind of relentless optimism that made you wonder if he was genuinely happy all the time or just very good at faking it. Back at the depot, Garry would have called him a "glass half full type" before muttering something about how that glass was probably full of bullshit.

"Reasonable?" Karen's retort was sharp, her glare directed at her husband. "It's a long way to walk just to check. I've got better things to do than wander over there."

Fair point. The Drop Zone was over a hill, through soft sand that tried to swallow your feet with every step. Not exactly a casual stroll.

Jamie, quick to join the dissent, added his voice to the mix.

"I'm with Karen on this one," he said decisively. "I'm too busy."

"Busy?" Paul's repetition of the word carried an edge of scepticism and growing frustration. "All you've done is sit in your tent for the past two days!"

Oh shit.

The tension escalated as Jamie's patience snapped.

"Fuck off, Paul!"

The anger and annoyance in his voice were palpable, a stark contrast to the earlier camaraderie.

A piece of chicken he had been eating fell into his lap in the heat of the moment, and he growled under his breath, a clear sign of his irritation, before dismissively tossing it into the campfire.

The chicken sizzled as it hit the coals. Duke's head lifted momentarily, mourning the waste, before settling back down with a disappointed sigh.

I watched, taken aback by the sudden shift in the atmosphere.

He was sitting in the tent because of me, I realised. Because I was lying there half-dead and he wouldn't leave.

Jamie's outburst was unexpected, yet Paul seemed remarkably unfazed by the heated exchange. Like he'd heard worse. Like this was just an ordinary day for them.

It was Luke who then stepped in to redirect the conversation.

"Didn't you want to be responsible for managing the Drop Zone anyway?" he asked Paul, his tone neutral but his glance sideways, suggesting an undercurrent of challenge or perhaps an attempt to diffuse the situation.

Chris interjected with a more conciliatory tone.

"I'm happy to wander over. It'll be a nice break, and it'll be good to see what's there," he said, speaking through mouthfuls of food, seemingly trying to bring a sense of peace back to the group.

The peacemaker. Every group had one. Someone who smoothed things over, changed the subject, made awkward situations less awkward.

Jamie's response was another eye roll, but this time, he chose to keep his thoughts to himself, perhaps recognising that the argument was going nowhere or unwilling to escalate the tension further.

"You'd make a great Drop Zone Manager, Paul," Glenda's voice broke through the tension, her words smooth and deliberate, like a calming balm over the heated atmosphere.

Manager. The word hung there, loaded with implication. It was the kind of title that sounded important whilst potentially meaning nothing at all.

Kain's muttered comment, "Well, he's shit at building things," was not quite as discreet as he might have intended.

It floated across the group, audible to everyone.

Jamie's reaction was immediate—a barely suppressed smirk, a silent acknowledgment of the humour in Kain's blunt honesty.

Ha. I nearly choked on a piece of beef. Kain, the construction apprentice, passing judgment on Paul's building skills. The irony wasn't lost on anyone.

"I think our settlement has a better chance of thriving if we each focus on our own strengths," Glenda continued, her gaze shifting pointedly towards Kain, who promptly averted his eyes, perhaps acknowledging the gentle rebuke in her tone.

She then redirected her attention to Paul.

"With Luke bringing supplies through so quickly now, having a dedicated Manager for the Drop Zone would be a good idea."

Her suggestion seemed to bring a new focus to the discussion, one that was constructive and forward-thinking.

Give the man a job. Keep him busy. Keep him out of everyone else's way.

It was workplace politics, I realised. The same kind of thing that happened at the depot when someone was more trouble than they were worth but you couldn't fire them, so you gave them a role that sounded important but kept them away from the actual work.

"Fine," Paul grudgingly conceded, the reluctance clear in his voice. "I'll be responsible for notifying people when their belongings arrive and for keeping the Drop Zone organised."

His acceptance, though reluctant, seemed to acknowledge the necessity of the role.

"Marvellous," Karen chimed in, her tone reflecting approval of the new arrangement.

Paul wasn't done, though.

"But, if I'm going to be back and forth so often, we need to do something about this bloody dust! We need to build a road."

His statement, tinged with practicality, underscored a pressing need within our growing community.

A road. The same problem we'd seen earlier with Glenda's bogged BMW. The same soft, wheel-swallowing dust that turned every journey into an ordeal.

"Fair enough," Glenda agreed, her nod suggesting an understanding of the logistics involved in Paul's new role.

"I can help with that," Chris interjected, his hand shooting up like a schoolboy eager to volunteer for a task.

His enthusiasm was palpable, almost comically so, and I caught Jamie scoffing lightly at Chris's eagerness.

Teacher's pet, I thought, and immediately felt guilty. Chris was just being helpful. Nothing wrong with being helpful.

"Yeah, I guess we could all pitch in," Kain added, his eyes scanning the group, perhaps seeking a consensus or validation for the proposed plan.

Before I fully comprehended my own decision, I heard my voice joining the chorus.

"I'll help too."

The words came out before I could stop them. Croaky and thin, barely audible over the crackle of the fire, but they were out.

I saw Jamie's reaction from the corner of my eye—a start, almost a knee-jerk reaction to dissuade me.

Don't even think about it, I thought at him. Don't you dare tell me I can't.

But something in my gaze, perhaps a flicker of determination caught in the campfire's glow, seemed to hold him back. This time, he remained silent.

A surge of nerves and excitement coursed through me at the thought of contributing to the road construction.

Building a road. It wasn't exactly delivering packages, but it was work. Physical work. Something I could do with my hands that would make a tangible difference.

It wasn't just about the physical labour; it was a symbol of my willingness to integrate into this group, to share in their struggles and triumphs.

It was also a silent message to Jamie, my newfound father, showing him that I was ready to shoulder responsibilities, to face new challenges head-on.

I'm not just a patient, I wanted him to understand. I'm not just the kid you pulled out of a lagoon. I can contribute. I can be useful. I can be more than a burden.

In that moment, as the fire crackled and the night wrapped around us, I felt a burgeoning sense of belonging and purpose within this makeshift community.

And the beef madras was actually pretty good.