Manager of Dust and Suitcases

"Sometimes finding your purpose means accepting that the role you get isn't the role you wanted—it's just the role nobody else wants to do."

The campfire's crackles erupted into a cacophony as Kain, with a casual toss, added another log to the burgeoning flames. Tiny sparks, like fleeting stars, danced through the evening air, embarking on short-lived journeys propelled by the whims of the gentle breeze. This same breeze, a traitor of sorts, guided a fresh plume of smoke directly across my line of sight.

Instinctively, I averted my gaze, my eyes squinting, battling against the ashen assault that threatened to invade them. The sharp sting was imminent, a sensation all too familiar in these gatherings around the fire. No matter where I sat, the smoke seemed to find me—as if it had developed a personal vendetta, tracking my movements around the circle with malicious precision. Some cruel law of physics, perhaps, or simply the universe's way of reminding me that comfort was never guaranteed here. Nothing was guaranteed here.

"Sorry," Kain said, his voice piercing through the crackling backdrop, laced with a hint of amusement and concern. "Didn't mean to do that."

"All good," I managed, my voice carrying a lightness, a practised ease that didn't quite mask the fleeting irritation.

My hand waved dismissively, an unspoken pact of camaraderie amidst our shared, rugged conditions. We were all learning to tolerate minor discomforts—the smoke, the dust, the endless grit that found its way into everything. The smoke in my eyes was nothing compared to what we had already endured. A week ago, I had been a businessman with meetings and spreadsheets and a marriage slowly suffocating us both. Now I was a man with nothing but the clothes on his back and a healing wound on his arm, sitting around a fire in an alien dimension, grateful for the small mercy of not having dust in his mouth for the first time all day.

"Butter chicken for you?"

Luke's question redirected my attention from the fire's unpredictable temperament to a more immediate, and certainly more appealing, matter at hand. He extended towards me a plastic container, its contents hidden yet betrayed by the tantalising aroma that immediately commandeered my senses. It was full, promising a hearty meal, the spicy curry's scent weaving its way into my very being, stirring an almost forgotten sensation of homely comfort.

"Yeah, thanks," I responded, my gratitude genuine, my anticipation palpable.

The smell alone transported me—to restaurants in Broken Hill where Claire and I used to eat before the children came, back when we still went on dates, back when we still liked each other enough to choose each other's company. To takeaway nights at home when Claire hadn't felt like cooking and I would pick up containers from the Indian place on Argent Street, the one with the red awning and the owner who always remembered my order. To a world where food came from kitchens rather than through inter-dimensional Portals, where meals were ordinary rather than miraculous.

"Chicken tikka?" Luke's inquiry was now directed at Karen, moving the moment along, yet my focus remained fixed on the container now in my grasp.

I found myself momentarily distracted by the sauce, its rich, creamy texture teasing the edges of the lid. With a careful lift, the container revealed its treasures—a perfect harmony of butter chicken paired with rice.

It was a luxury, this combination, especially when the camp's resources were stretched thin by the ever-growing number of settlers. Each new face around the fire, each new mouth to feed, added layers to our communal narrative—a story of survival, of makeshift families formed not by blood but by circumstance. Karen and Chris, the married couple who seemed to communicate in glances and half-finished sentences. Kain, whose rough exterior hid a willingness to work that had surprised me. Glenda, whose quiet competence had already saved at least one life. Jamie and Joel, bound together by grief and blood and the impossible fact of Joel's continued existence. And me. All of us practically strangers a week ago, now sharing meals and space and the uncertain hope of building something lasting.

As I licked the sauce from the corner of the container—an action that would have horrified Claire, who insisted on proper table manners even when we ate alone—I couldn't help but reflect on our situation. The camp, with its flickering flames and shared meals, was a microcosm of the world outside—chaotic, uncertain, yet filled with moments of unexpected warmth and generosity. The number of settlers, the scarcity of plates, these were but surface concerns masking the deeper, unspoken challenges we faced. Yet, in this moment, with the spice of the curry igniting my taste buds and the camaraderie around the fire warming something deeper than my skin, the hardships seemed a little less daunting.

My earlier outburst at Luke felt distant now, softened by food and evening air. The dust had won today, but perhaps tomorrow would be different. Perhaps tomorrow I would find some way to be useful that didn't involve watching a car sink into powder or screaming at my brother in frustration.

"Lois, sit!" Glenda's voice, firm yet affectionate, cut through the evening's calm as she addressed the overzealous retriever.

I couldn't help but smile, watching the scene unfold. Lois, whose energy seemed inexhaustible even after a full day of exploring and playing, had taken a particular liking to Duke, shadowing him with a persistence that was both amusing and admirable. Duke, for his part, found sanctuary nestled between Jamie and Joel's feet—a living bridge between two people he adored, content to let Lois orbit around him without engaging in her enthusiastic attempts at friendship.

I glanced down at my own arm, where my wound marred my skin. The grey had retreated—that strange discolouration that had worried me more than I had admitted to anyone. The scabs were forming properly now, the healing progressing in a way that finally looked normal. Comparing it to Joel's recovery—his resilience a beacon of hope in these often trying times—I allowed myself a moment of optimism.

Surely, if Joel could bounce back with such vigour, my own healing was just a matter of time.

This thought, a small flicker of positivity, was a rare and cherished visitor. Joel, who had been dead. Joel, whose throat had been cut open by someone who wanted him to die. Joel, who had floated down a river like something from a nightmare and washed up on our shores like driftwood. Joel, who now sat eating chicken tikka masala as if resurrection were simply another thing that happened to a person, as ordinary as catching a cold or stubbing a toe.

If he could survive that, surely I could survive a wound on my arm and a bruised ego.

From a distance, Henri's satisfied snort reached my ears, pulling me from my reverie. I chuckled, the sound a spontaneous reaction to the dog's antics. Henri, ever the elusive character, had spent the better part of the day in a self-imposed exile, seeking refuge from the lively bustle that Lois and the increasing human presence brought to our enclave. He was a creature of solitude, that one—preferring his own company to the chaos of our growing settlement.

However, the moment Jamie relocated the dogs' beds closer to the fire—an attempt, perhaps, to foster a sense of community among our non-human companions, or simply to keep them warm as the evening cooled—Henri emerged. With an accuracy that rivalled even the most adept of navigators, he found his way to the beds, claiming his spot as if guided by an internal compass that pointed always toward comfort.

Despite the openness of his new resting place, Henri seemed content—a king in his court, so long as his peace remained unbroken. Observing him, I realised that Henri's demeanour mirrored our own delicate balance of adaptation and resistance. We were all seeking our own patches of comfort, our own pieces of stability in a world that offered neither in abundance. Henri had simply found his faster than the rest of us.

In this makeshift family of settlers, animals, and shared hardships, each of us sought our own patch of comfort, our own piece of stability. Henri's choice to join us, yet on his own terms, was a reminder of the resilience and adaptability that defined our collective existence. As the fire crackled and the night deepened, these moments of connection—of shared spaces and silent understandings—wove the fabric of our unconventional community tighter, binding us with threads of mutual respect and unspoken camaraderie.

It was in the midst of these reflective musings, as the din of conversation naturally ebbed to the rhythm of communal dining, that I found an opening to voice my concerns. The remnants of my earlier irritations had dissolved into a calm determination, spurred on by a series of interactions with Luke that left me contemplating the logistics of our daily lives here. This moment felt ripe for discussion, an opportunity to address what I perceived as a growing oversight in our camp's operations.

"Ahem," I ventured, an attempt to herald my forthcoming points despite the flutter of nerves that seemed to dance uneasily in my stomach.

I had never been good at this sort of thing—speaking to groups, asserting myself outside the structured environment of a boardroom. In business, I had the weight of contracts and money behind me. Here, I had nothing but the hope that people might listen.

I didn't pause for dramatic effect or to ensure I had everyone's undivided attention; the matter felt too pressing, too integral to our collective well-being to delay.

"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 find you need."

"That sounds reasonable enough," Chris said, nodding in agreement. His support bolstered my confidence. Here was someone who understood the practicality of what I was proposing—someone who had seen the chaos of unclaimed luggage piling up in the dust, who understood that organisation was the foundation of any functioning community.

"Reasonable?" Karen's voice sliced through the burgeoning consensus, her incredulity directed not just at my suggestion but at her husband's quick endorsement. "It's a long way to walk just to check. I'm too busy to wander over to simply... check."

"I'm with Karen on this one. Too busy," Jamie added, quick to align with her stance, their mutual dissent a testament to the diverse priorities within our group.

Their objections, sharp and swift, struck a chord of frustration within me—a reaction I struggled to keep sheathed. Too busy? Too busy doing what? We were all trapped here, all struggling to survive, and they were too busy to walk a few hundred metres to collect their own belongings? Karen, at least, had her insects to study—some scientific project that seemed to give her purpose. But Jamie?

"Busy!? All you've done is sit in the tent for the past two days!"

The words escaped me, a reflexive retort that I immediately wished I could reel back in. My attempt at fostering a sense of shared responsibility and communal effort had inadvertently veered towards confrontation, the carefully constructed diplomacy crumbling under the weight of my frustration. But it was true. Jamie had barely lifted a finger since Joel's recovery began. He sat and watched and complained while the rest of us worked to build something from nothing. His son had nearly died, yes—but Joel himself was up and about, contributing what he could, while Jamie wallowed in some combination of fear and self-pity that I found increasingly difficult to tolerate.

"Fuck off, Paul!"

Jamie's outburst was accompanied by the unfortunate demise of his saucy chicken morsel, which tumbled from his fork and landed in the dust with a soft splat. The piece of chicken, now a casualty of our heated exchange, seemed almost symbolic of the delicate balance I was trying to maintain—and failing.

The words stung. Not because they were unexpected—Jamie and I had been circling this confrontation since we arrived here, two men with incompatible ideas about contribution and community—but because they were delivered so publicly, so casually, in front of everyone. I felt my face flush with a mixture of anger and embarrassment, the heat rising up my neck and settling in my cheeks. I wanted to respond in kind. Wanted to tell Jamie exactly what I thought of his contribution to our settlement. But the words caught in my throat, held back by some vestige of self-control I hadn't known I still possessed.

"Didn't you want to be responsible for managing the Drop Zone anyway?" Luke asked, his question coming with a sideways glance, a hint of challenge mingled with genuine curiosity in his tone.

It was a reminder of our earlier conversations, of the roles we had all tentatively embraced. And it was an escape route, offered just when I needed one—a chance to step back from the confrontation without losing face entirely.

"I'm happy to wander over. It'll be a nice break, and good to see what's there," Chris interjected, his voice carrying a note of unwavering support that momentarily lifted the tension.

He punctuated his willingness with a forkful of food, as if to underline the simplicity of the task at hand. At least someone was on my side. At least someone understood that what I was proposing wasn't unreasonable, wasn't some power grab or attempt to impose my will on the group.

"You make a good Drop Zone Manager, Paul," Glenda added, her encouragement offering a soft counterbalance to the brewing discord.

The title—Drop Zone Manager—hung in the air between us. It was a role, a function, a purpose. Something I desperately needed. Since arriving here, I had felt adrift, useless, a businessman without a business, a manager without anything to manage. The car had bogged in the dust. The tents had gone up without my help. I had contributed nothing of value, and the knowledge of that failure had been eating at me since the first day.

"Well, he is shit at building things," Kain muttered, almost under his breath, but loud enough for everyone to hear.

I swallowed the retort that rose in my throat. He wasn't wrong. That was the worst part. I had tried to help with the tents and had only gotten in the way. My hands, so capable of typing reports and signing contracts, were useless when it came to physical labour. The admission, even silent and internal, burned with a shame I hadn't expected to feel so keenly.

"I think our settlement has more chance of thriving if we each focus on our own strengths," Glenda continued, her gaze shifting momentarily to Kain, whose attention swiftly returned to his meal—an unspoken acknowledgment of her point, or perhaps a recognition that he had pushed far enough.

Glenda's eyes found mine again, her look conveying a mix of empathy and resolution. She saw me, I realised. Saw the struggle behind my suggestion, the desperate need to contribute something meaningful. And she was offering me a way forward.

"With Luke bringing supplies through so quickly now, perhaps it would be best if the Drop Zone had a dedicated manager."

Her suggestion, framed as a gentle proposition, felt like the closing argument in a case I was destined to lose. Or perhaps destined to win, depending on how I chose to see it. I could fight for shared responsibility and continue the conflict, alienating myself further from people I needed to live alongside. Or I could accept this role and finally have something concrete to contribute—something that was mine, that no one else wanted, that I could make my own.

I shrugged, a gesture of surrender rather than agreement. My earlier aspirations to instil a sense of shared responsibility within the camp seemed naïve now, crumbling under the reality of our disparate capabilities and priorities. People would do what they wanted to do. The best I could hope for was to find my own place in the chaos.

"Fine. I'll be responsible for notifying people when things arrive for them and for keeping the Drop Zone in some sort of order."

The words felt strange coming out of my mouth. Drop Zone Manager. It wasn't running a business. It wasn't managing multimillion-dollar contracts or negotiating with suppliers or building the kind of legacy I had always imagined for myself. It was... keeping track of suitcases and bags in the dust. Sorting through the detritus of other people's lives. Making sure nothing got lost in the chaos.

But it was something. It was mine.

"Marvellous," Karen said, the single word laced with a hint of sarcasm, yet not entirely devoid of gratitude. Perhaps she was genuinely relieved that someone else would handle the logistics she couldn't be bothered with. Perhaps she was simply glad the confrontation was over.

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

The words tumbled out before I could second-guess them, my frustration with the camp's current infrastructure—or lack thereof—spilling over. The dust, omnipresent and relentless, was more than just a nuisance; it was a tangible barrier to everything we were trying to build. I had bogged a car in it on my first day. I had breathed it, eaten it, worn it like a second skin that no amount of washing could remove. It invaded everything—our clothes, our food, our lungs, our spirits. If I was going to be trudging back and forth to the Drop Zone multiple times a day, I refused to do it through that ankle-deep nightmare.

"That sounds fair enough," Glenda responded swiftly, her tone imbued with a practicality that I had come to rely on. Her agreement felt like a small victory, a sign that my concerns were not only heard but validated.

"I can help with that," Chris chimed in, his hand shooting up with an enthusiasm that was both heartening and slightly amusing.

He reminded me of a diligent student, eager to contribute to a collective project, his spirit undampened by the magnitude of the task at hand. This was his area—yard work, moving earth, clearing ground. The "dust remover" was finally getting a chance to remove some dust. His eyes were bright with the prospect of doing something he was actually good at, something that would make a visible, tangible difference to our camp.

"Yeah, I guess we could all pitch in," Kain added, his commitment more measured, his gaze wandering around the group as if seeking a consensus before fully committing himself.

"I'll help, too," Joel said, his voice cutting through the conversation stronger and more determined than I had yet heard from him.

I looked at him—this boy who had been dead, who had been stitched back together by Glenda's steady hands, who by all rights should still be recovering in bed—and felt something shift in my chest. If Joel could offer to help build a road, I could certainly manage a Drop Zone.

As assent rippled through the group, I felt a shift within me, a buoyancy returning to my spirit. The daunting prospect of managing the Drop Zone, compounded by the physical toll of navigating the dust-ridden paths, seemed less overwhelming now. With the prospect of a road—a literal and metaphorical pathway to easing our daily burdens—the task felt more manageable. More real. More like something that might actually matter.

Besides, it would spare me the challenge of construction work, a field where my skills were notably lacking. Let Kain pour the concrete. Let Chris clear the ground. Let Karen study her insects. Let Jamie sit in his tent and sulk. I would manage the Drop Zone. I would keep things organised, track what came through, notify people of their belongings. It wasn't glamorous, but it was necessary. And necessary, I was beginning to learn, was enough.

No sooner had we settled on a plan than the group seamlessly returned to their previous engagements, their conversations and meals resuming as if uninterrupted. The ease with which we navigated from debate to decision, from individual concerns to collective solutions, was a reminder of the unique dynamics at play within our settlement. We were learning to be a community, one awkward conversation at a time.

As the chatter swelled around me, my thoughts lingered on the road ahead—both the literal task of building it and the metaphorical journey we were all on. This road would be more than just a solution to a logistical problem; it would be a symbol of our ability to come together, to transform challenges into opportunities. It would be the first thing we built that was truly permanent, truly ours.

In the dust we sought to tame, I saw the embodiment of the adversities that had brought us together, and in the road we planned to build, a testament to what we could achieve as a unified community. We weren't just surviving anymore. We were starting to build.

Drop Zone Manager. The title repeated in my mind as I scraped the last of the butter chicken from the container, chasing the final grains of rice with my fork. It wasn't what I had imagined for myself when I stepped through that Portal. It wasn't the life I had planned, the career I had built, the identity I had spent thirty-five years constructing. But then again, nothing about this place was what I had imagined. Nothing about this place followed the rules I had learned to navigate.

At least now I had a job. At least now I had a purpose.

And tomorrow, we would start building a road.

The fire crackled its approval, sending another shower of sparks spiralling upward into the darkening sky. I watched them rise and fade, each one a brief bright life against the infinite black, and felt something settle in my chest that might have been acceptance.

Manager of Dust and Suitcases. It wasn't much. But it was mine.