Maybe a Few Million

"There's nothing quite like having your sense of scale collapse—one moment you're worried about feeding seven people, and the next someone's asking if you can absorb a continent."

Pierre led me into a living room that exuded understated elegance, its spaciousness speaking of a life well-lived and well-funded. The room carried that particular quality of homes where comfort and taste had merged into something genuinely welcoming rather than merely impressive.

"Stay here," he instructed before disappearing through a doorway, leaving me in temporary limbo.

"Shit," I muttered under my breath once he was gone, a quiet release of tension that barely touched the reservoir still building inside me. My fingers rose instinctively to massage the tender skin of my throat, a stark reminder of the physicality of our earlier encounter. The welcome I had envisioned—if breaking into someone's home could ever be called welcoming—was laughably distant from the reality I now faced.

I took a deep breath, attempting to anchor myself in the present moment, to quell the rising tide of adrenaline that showed no signs of ebbing. The room around me offered distractions, at least—evidence of lives being lived, choices being made, a home being maintained with obvious care.

My gaze wandered, taking in details with the particular attention of someone trying to understand the people who inhabited a space. The living area was tastefully adorned, with plush furnishings that promised comfort and walls bearing art that spoke of refined taste developed over years rather than purchased wholesale from a decorator. The pieces were eclectic—some clearly valuable, others chosen for sentiment rather than status.

Behind me, the kitchen sprawled with the kind of scale that announced people who actually cooked rather than merely microwaved. The double oven gleamed with recent cleaning, the oversized fridge hummed, and the countertops showed the particular wear of surfaces that had seen actual use rather than mere display.

"Doctors," I uttered with a soft chuckle, the irony of the observation not lost on me. The opulence surrounding me stood in stark contrast to the turmoil I felt within—the chaos of my recent actions, the lives I'd disrupted, the growing collection of keys and wallets hidden in my bedroom safe. Here was a life built on legitimate success, on skill and education and the particular rewards society offered to those who healed rather than harmed.

To my left, as I faced the kitchen's culinary expanse, a large glass door marked the division between interior warmth and the outside world. It offered a transparent threshold to the deck area, blurring the boundary between inside and outside in that way that good architecture achieved. The deck itself was reasonably sized, hosting an elegant outdoor setting capable of accommodating ten guests, arranged beneath a cover that promised shelter from Tasmania's unpredictable weather whilst still allowing natural light to drench the space.

My attention, however, was momentarily captured by a dainty water feature, its gentle burble providing a soothing counterpoint to the tension still coiled in my muscles. Nestled among a clutch of delicate ferns, it beckoned with the promise of momentary peace—an invitation to step away from the whirlwind of my current predicament, even if only for a breath.

As I moved toward the door, drawn by the tranquil allure of the water feature, a sudden movement caught my eye. A golden retriever appeared at the top of the outdoor stairs, embodying the very essence of canine joy and uninhibited enthusiasm. The dog bounded forward, her approach a blur of golden fur and frantically wagging tail, her whole body expressing a welcome that no human interaction today had offered.

Crouching down to meet her eye level through the glass, I waved—a silent greeting to this unexpected source of comfort. The dog responded with a friendly bark, the sound muffled by the barrier between us, yet her message of welcome came through with unmistakable clarity. In that moment, the connection—though silent and simple—offered a fleeting respite from the weight of human complications, a pure exchange untainted by the violence and confusion that had preceded it.

"You know she'll be wanting to find her father," Pierre remarked, re-entering the room with a suitcase in hand, his voice breaking the brief interlude that had allowed me a moment's escape.

"Her father?" I echoed, rising to my feet, genuine surprise colouring the question. "I thought he had passed away."

Pierre's scoff was a sharp retort to my assumption, carrying the particular edge of someone correcting a misconception he'd encountered before. "Glenda doesn't believe it. Not at all," he stated, his words weighted with implications that reached beyond their surface meaning.

I was momentarily adrift, pondering the complexities of Glenda's beliefs and the mysteries surrounding her father. The silence stretched between us, filled with questions I wasn't sure I should ask and answers I wasn't sure Pierre would give. How should I navigate this revelation? Was it prudent to delve deeper into the enigma of her father's fate with a man who might hold pieces of truth Glenda had never shared with me?

As these questions churned through my mind, I hesitated on the verge of voicing my curiosity. But before the words could form, Pierre shifted the conversation's trajectory with a request of his own.

"Can I see it?" he inquired, his gaze fixed on the Portal Key that I still clutched, the object that had inadvertently become the pivot around which the day's events revolved.

"This?" I responded, lifting the Portal Key into the air. Its form caught the light filtering through the windows, casting small reflections that danced briefly across the walls.

Pierre's nod was silent affirmation, acknowledging the object's significance without requiring explanation. My shoulders relaxed slightly—a nonverbal acquiescence to his request. There seemed no harm in granting it; after all, the Portal Key was central to the situation at hand, and Pierre had already demonstrated he knew far more than I'd expected.

Surveying the room for an appropriate surface to activate the Portal, my gaze swept across walls encumbered with shelves and adorned with picture frames of various sizes. Each frame captured a moment, a slice of life within this house—Glenda and Pierre at what looked like a medical conference, holiday photographs from European cities, the golden retriever as a puppy. The options for my demonstration were limited; every inch of wall space was occupied, telling silent stories in frozen imagery.

The dog's restless bark sliced through my concentration, her excitement undiminished by the glass barrier. Then the solution clicked into place—the glass window of the sliding door itself. It wasn't just a barrier between spaces; it was the canvas I needed.

I aimed the Portal Key at the glass, that transparent threshold between interior comfort and exterior wilderness.

As I activated the device, a small orb of energy burst forth from its tip, racing toward the glass and erupting upon contact into a spectacle of colours that seemed to defy the laws of physics I'd grown up accepting. Vibrant, swirling hues danced across the glass surface—colours that existed nowhere in nature, patterns that shifted and flowed with something approaching consciousness. It was a kaleidoscope of light that seemed to reach beyond mere vision, touching something deeper.

Pierre's approach to the vortex was cautious, his eyes fixed on the phenomenon with the particular intensity of someone recalibrating their understanding of reality.

"I've listened many times when Glenda's told me stories about her father and a strange Portal to another dimension. But I had always thought they were just the made-up stories of an imaginative man who was doing his best to raise his daughter. Despite Glenda insisting they were true, I never did believe any of it was real," he confessed, his voice carrying wonder and introspection in equal measure. "But now..." His words trailed off, leaving acknowledgment unspoken but unmistakable.

The confession opened new questions even as it answered old ones. Glenda had known about Portals before I'd ever shown her one. Her father had told her stories—stories Pierre had dismissed as fantasy but Glenda had believed. The implications rippled outward, suggesting connections I hadn't suspected.

I navigated across the room to retrieve the suitcase Pierre had packed, my steps measured as I processed this new information. Returning to where he stood transfixed, I positioned myself beside him, both of us facing the Portal's pulsing display.

"Come with me," I urged, extending the invitation that seemed logical given his apparent acceptance of the impossible.

"I can't," Pierre responded, the refusal carrying an urgency I hadn't expected. "Not yet. I have other urgent things to deal with first."

The memory of his forearm against my throat remained fresh, and I found myself unconsciously rubbing at the tender skin whilst I reassessed everything about this encounter. Pierre's actions, his sudden shift from violence to cooperation, his insistence on remaining behind—the pieces suggested a picture I couldn't fully assemble.

They're both doctors, I realised, the connection forming with sudden clarity. If Glenda knew about Portals, if she had connections to whatever organisation had created 'The Testing' she'd mentioned...

The possibility that both she and Pierre might be members of some secret order—The Fox Order, perhaps—suddenly seemed less paranoid and more probable.

"Are you The Fox?" The question emerged before caution could intercept it, driven by curiosity and the need to understand what I'd stumbled into.

"No," Pierre replied without hesitation, his response immediate and flat.

"But you know who is?" I pressed, seeking any crack in the mystery.

"No," he repeated, shaking his head in a gesture that might have been denial or warning—or both. "Go," he insisted, his tone firm and final. "I'll be in touch."

The air between us was charged with unspoken acknowledgments, each of us assessing the other with the particular attention of people who'd become unexpectedly entangled in each other's affairs.

My curiosity refused to subside entirely. "Are you going to ask me for my number?" I asked, the question hovering somewhere between jest and genuine inquiry. "How else will you be in touch?"

"No. It's not safe for us to talk on the phone," Pierre countered, his voice dropping to a tone that brooked no argument, carrying the particular weight of someone speaking from experience rather than paranoia. "Meet me here next Friday at ten sharp."

His words settled over me like a directive that offered no room for negotiation. The stipulation of time and place was a tether, linking us through a commitment to reconvene under circumstances neither of us could fully predict.

My brow furrowed as connections began forming, threads weaving together from disparate sources. The news reports I'd been half-noticing over recent weeks surfaced in my memory—mentions of a new virus spreading through communities, health officials expressing concern, case numbers climbing in ways that warranted attention. I'd dismissed them as background noise, irrelevant to the inter-dimensional crisis consuming my attention.

Now, facing Pierre's intensity, those dismissed reports took on new significance.

"What the hell are you involved in, Pierre?"

"No, not now," Pierre dismissed, a flicker of something passing through his eyes before they brightened with sudden realisation—a thought occurring that seemed to shift his entire demeanour.

"What is it?" I probed, sensing the weight of whatever had struck him.

"We may need to do a mass evacuation," he declared, the words landing with the force of something I couldn't immediately process.

"But we can't," I countered, my mind racing through the logistics of Clivilius's current state—the handful of tents, the struggling survivors, the complete absence of infrastructure. "They can't leave Clivilius."

"No," Pierre corrected, his gaze steady with a calm that felt entirely inappropriate for what he was suggesting. "Evacuate Earth."

The words struck me like a physical blow, the air leaving my lungs as though Pierre had resumed his earlier assault on my windpipe.

"Shit!" The expletive burst from me, a visceral reaction to the sheer scale of what he was proposing. "Are you serious? Like how many people are you talking about here? A few hundred?"

Pierre's response was measured, eerily calm against the storm of implications his words had unleashed. "Maybe a few thousand. Maybe a few million," he stated, each word weighted with the burden of countless lives.

The enormity was paralysing. My mind attempted to process the logistics and failed utterly. Clivilius, with all its promise and potential, remained in its infancy—a nascent attempt at civilisation that couldn't yet feed itself reliably, let alone absorb refugees on a planetary scale. The vision of what the settlement might become was clear enough in my imagination, but the reality of what it currently was stood in stark, mocking contrast.

The thought of transporting even a fraction of Earth's population was beyond daunting—it stretched past the limits of possibility into territory that felt more like fever dream than planning.

"Pierre, I..." My voice faltered, words dissolving into charged silence. The enormity of the challenge, the sheer audacity of what was being suggested, left me grasping for footholds in a reality that seemed to be shifting beneath my feet.

How could anyone orchestrate such a massive exodus? The resources required, the logistics involved, the infrastructure that would need to exist on the other side—it was overwhelming. Yet beneath my shock and disbelief, some part of me understood the desperation that might drive such a proposal. The instinct to survive, to seek refuge from existential threat—these were primal forces that had moved populations before.

But the practicalities, the implications, the sheer impossibility of the scale—

Pierre's head shake was vehement, cutting off my spiralling thoughts. "Forget it. I've said too much already," he declared, finality entering his voice as he nudged the suitcase toward me. The gesture was a clear signal that certain topics were now closed for discussion.

"Tell Glenda that I love her and miss her, and that I am safe," he added, the words carrying weight that reached far beyond their simple surface.

They hung between us, laden with emotions that neither of us was equipped to address in this moment—a husband's message to a wife stranded in another dimension, transmitted through a stranger he'd been choking minutes earlier.

I felt an unexpected tug at something in my chest, a wish that Pierre would choose to accompany me, to face whatever awaited us together rather than remaining behind to deal with threats I couldn't see. Yet his decision stood firm, etched in the set of his jaw and the resolve behind his eyes.

"Is she lonely?" Pierre's question caught me off guard, pulling me back from contemplation of larger crises to the immediate human concern.

I paused, considering the reality of Clivilius as I'd left it—the dust, the struggling tents, the handful of people trying to establish something from nothing. "The settlement is only a few days old, population..." I tallied the inhabitants in my head, the meagre count a stark illustration of our vulnerability. "Population seven. Still no plants or wildlife, but there are a few pets."

The admission left a hollow feeling, the words highlighting just how precarious our existence in that other world remained.

Pierre's response was unexpected but immediate. He strode to the glass door and slid it open with a swift motion, admitting an eager Lois whose energy hadn't diminished despite everything that had transpired. The golden retriever bounded inside, tail creating its own weather system of excitement.

"Take Lois with you," Pierre implored, a tremor threading through his voice that betrayed the emotion beneath his composed exterior.

I hesitated, the weight of responsibility for another life—especially in conditions as uncertain as those awaiting in Clivilius—pressing down on me. We could barely keep the humans alive; adding a dog seemed like an unnecessary complication.

Yet the thought of Duke and Henri surfaced, and with it came a flicker of hope. If those other animals could adapt and thrive in that alien environment, perhaps Lois could too. The companionship might mean more to Glenda than any practical concern could outweigh.

With a slow, deliberate nod, I accepted the responsibility. My hand closed around Lois's collar, feeling the warm pulse of life beneath my fingers—a reminder of the fragile threads of hope we were all clinging to in our different ways.

"You'll need her food too," Pierre's voice redirected my attention as he headed toward the kitchen with renewed purpose. His movements were swift and practical, the actions of someone accustomed to dealing with logistics under pressure.

He pulled open the pantry door, revealing shelves laden with the organised provisions of a well-run household.

I followed, still somewhat tangled in the implications of our conversation. "It's okay. They've got plenty of food for now, unless there's something specific Glenda likes?"

Pierre's chuckle broke through the weighted atmosphere, a brief moment of something lighter. "I wasn't talking about Glenda." He stooped to access the lower shelf, his intent becoming clear as he straightened. "I was talking about Lois," he clarified, beginning to load large cans of dog food onto the bench, each thud a practical punctuation to his point.

Heat rose to my cheeks as embarrassment caught up with me. Of course he meant the dog. The oversight was obvious in retrospect, and I mentally chided myself for being so focused on human concerns that I'd forgotten the basic needs of our newest passenger.

"You've got an enclosed garage?" I inquired, a new thought striking me as I considered the logistics of transporting everything through the Portal.

"Yes, why?" Pierre's response carried curiosity, his gaze shifting from the accumulating dog provisions to me.

The Portal's vibrant display had begun to fade, the colours drawing back into themselves until the glass door regained its ordinary transparency, once again merely a barrier between indoor comfort and outdoor chill.

Lois, released from my momentary grip, wasted no time in bounding back to Pierre. Her tail blurred with motion, her loyalty undivided despite the journey that awaited—a dog's simple devotion untouched by the complexities that troubled humans.

"May as well take the car," I suggested, practicality asserting itself. With a dog, a suitcase, and accumulating provisions to transport, walking through the Portal seemed increasingly impractical.

"Take Glenda's," Pierre proposed, his voice carrying the steadiness of someone making practical decisions amidst emotional turbulence. "I'll get you the spare key."

A knowing gesture was all it took to show I was ahead of him. "No need," I replied, producing Glenda's keys from my pocket with a slight lift in my tone. The metal jingled softly, a sound that seemed both mundane and loaded with meaning given everything those keys represented.

"Of course," Pierre acknowledged, a trace of something almost like a smile softening his features for a brief moment—perhaps a reflection of shared memories with Glenda, or simply appreciation for her characteristic thoughtfulness. "She's always thoughtful like that."

His attention shifted then, hands reaching for a large bag of dog biscuits. The action instantly captured Lois's complete attention, her body language transforming from general excitement to focused anticipation.

"Okay," Pierre addressed the dog, his voice carrying the particular blend of affection and authority that marked long-established routines between owner and pet. "But just a small handful."

"This way?" I inquired, positioning myself in the doorway, my finger pointing down the corridor in question.

"Yes," Pierre confirmed, his gaze following my gesture. "The door at the very end will take you into the garage."

Guided by his directions, I navigated the passageway, my footsteps echoing slightly in the enclosed space. Each step felt like movement toward resolution, toward the completion of at least one of the day's many tasks. Reaching the garage, I opened the door to reveal Glenda's car—a BMW that spoke of luxury, now serving as a vessel for transport between dimensions.

With a sense of purpose I was grateful to feel, I hoisted the suitcase onto the back seat. The action felt significant somehow—a tangible step toward reconnecting Glenda with pieces of her former life, evidence that she hadn't been entirely forgotten despite the distance now separating her from everything familiar.

Shortly after I'd settled the luggage, Pierre appeared in the garage doorway, his arms laden with provisions—bags of dog food, packages of biscuits, the accumulated necessities of canine care. His steps were heavy with more than physical weight, each movement carrying the unspoken emotions of a man preparing to send his wife's dog to join her in another dimension.

He placed the items in the back with the suitcase, arranging them with the particular care of someone who found comfort in practical action. Each placement was deliberate, as though he could communicate something through the arrangement of kibble and cans that words had failed to convey.

"Are you sure?" I found myself asking, my gaze dropping to Lois. Her eyes sparkled with the anticipation of adventure, her tail maintaining its tireless rhythm, entirely unaware of the significance of what was about to happen.

"Yes, take her," Pierre affirmed, his voice steady on the surface but carrying undertones of something more complex—resignation, perhaps, or hope disguised as practicality.

When I opened the driver's side door, Lois didn't hesitate. With agility and enthusiasm, she vaulted into the car, settling herself on the passenger side as though she'd claimed that spot countless times before. She sat poised, facing forward, her breaths quick with eagerness, ready for whatever lay ahead with the uncomplicated optimism only dogs seemed to possess.

Observing this, I noticed a softening in Pierre's expression—a momentary easing of the tension that had carved lines into his face throughout our encounter. The prospect of Lois being with Glenda, even in a place as uncertain as Clivilius, appeared to offer him something like comfort. Perhaps the thought of his wife having familiar companionship, even if he couldn't provide it himself, allowed him to release some small portion of his worry.

It was a bittersweet scene—a man bidding farewell to a loyal companion, trusting her to bring comfort where he currently could not.

Pierre leaned into the car, planting a gentle kiss on Lois's golden head. The gesture was tender, intimate, laden with affection and perhaps a silent apology for the upheaval about to disrupt her simple canine life. Lois responded with a soft bark—a sound that might have been acknowledgment or her own way of saying goodbye.

In that brief exchange, something passed between them—a transfer of care and companionship from one trusted guardian to another. It underscored how interconnected their lives were, even as they stood on the brink of separation that defied normal understanding.

"Glenda will keep her safe," I offered, reaching out to tap Pierre on the shoulder in an attempt to weave some thread of comfort into our farewell.

"I know," he acknowledged, his voice carrying resignation alongside trust—the acceptance of someone who had no choice but to believe.

"Hang on!" The sudden urgency in Pierre's voice halted my preparations to depart. "One more thing," he added before quickly vanishing back into the depths of the house.

Left in the interim of his absence, I watched the Portal's colours dance across the garage wall where I'd reactivated it—that mesmerising display of impossible hues that never quite became ordinary no matter how many times I witnessed it. Lois, ever attuned to stimulation, voiced her approval of the light show with a spirited bark.

When Pierre re-emerged, his arms cradled an object I hadn't expected: a violin case, its surface worn with the particular patina of frequent handling.

"Her violin!" he announced, something flickering in his eyes—relief, perhaps, or the satisfaction of remembering something important. "It'll be good for her," he added.

I received the case, its weight unexpected—both physically and symbolically. Another piece of Glenda's identity, preserved and transported. I nestled it carefully among the provisions in the back, positioning it where it wouldn't be crushed.

Sliding into the driver's seat, I closed the door with a sense of approaching finality, rolling down the window to maintain the last threads of connection between us.

"And some pillows," Pierre's voice reached me again, and he vanished once more before returning with an armful of softness—bedding that spoke of domestic comfort, of the small luxuries that made life bearable. He deposited them in the backseat with the same care he'd shown the other items, each placement a silent communication of his desire for Glenda's comfort even in circumstances beyond anyone's control.

With a light wave, Pierre stepped back from the car, creating physical and metaphorical space for our departure. My face tightened as a rush of unexpected emotion threatened to surface. I turned away, focusing on the task at hand, unwilling to betray the surge of feeling with my expression.

The ignition hummed to life at the press of a button—a mundane sound that marked the beginning of something far from ordinary. Lois, ever responsive to the promise of motion, voiced her readiness with a bark that cut through the garage's thick atmosphere of farewells and unfinished business.

I reversed slowly toward the swirling Portal I'd activated against the back wall, the colours welcoming us with their impossible dance. Lois pressed her nose toward the light, curiosity overcoming any instinct toward caution.

Then the colours enveloped us—that familiar sensation of dissolution and reformation, of existing between worlds for a heartbeat that stretched toward eternity—and we were through.

Clivilius materialised around the car, its rust-coloured dust and alien sky replacing the familiar confines of Pierre's garage. Glenda's vehicle had made the transit intact, its occupants—human and canine—arriving with the accumulated weight of everything I'd learned and everything I still didn't understand.

Mass evacuation. Millions of people. A virus spreading through the world I'd just left behind.

Pierre's words echoed in my mind as I sat in the suddenly still vehicle, Lois panting happily beside me, entirely unaware of the implications swirling through my thoughts.

The future had just become considerably more complicated. But for now, there was a suitcase to deliver, a dog to reunite with her owner, and a violin that might bring some small measure of comfort to a woman stranded far from everything she'd known.