Medical Tents in Borneo

"Hope comes disguised as blueprints and turrets and wooden slats—anything to make tomorrow feel less impossible than today."

Standing on the riverbank behind the tent, I watched the last few drops of water from the freshly soaked bandage disappear into the lifeless dust below, each drop a fleeting testament to the transient nature of our current existence. The dust swallowed the moisture greedily, as if starved for anything that might bring relief to its parched surface. Within seconds, there was no evidence the water had ever existed—just dry red dust, unchanged and unchanging.

The bandage was wet again, wrapped snugly around my forearm, and for now at least, the grey was held at bay. I had checked the wound twice this morning, unwrapping the fabric just enough to glimpse the flesh beneath. Pink. Healthy. Human. The puncture marks were scabbing over, the surrounding skin showing no trace of that ashen colour that had crept up my arm like frost. The action of soaking the bandage, so mundane yet so laden with significance, served as a reminder of the delicate balance we now found ourselves trying to maintain.

The wounds beneath the fabric had stopped burning, had settled into a dull throb that I was learning to ignore. Whatever the river water was doing—and I had no scientific explanation for it, no medical understanding of the mechanism—it seemed to be working. Or at least preventing things from getting worse. I'd take that as a victory, however small. In this place, small victories were the only kind we could reliably claim.

Yesterday's conversation with Glenda echoed in my mind, her words casting long shadows over my thoughts. She was right: This is the perfect spot to build a bridge. As I gazed across the river, the vision of it began to take shape in my mind's eye. Not just a utilitarian crossing, not just a way to get from one bank to the other, but something more. Something that spoke of permanence. Something that said we planned to stay.

The businessman in me was already calculating—materials needed, labour required, time to completion. I could almost see the project plan taking shape: source timber from wherever Luke could find it, organise construction crews, establish a timeline. The familiar mental exercise was comforting, a reminder that some skills translated even to alien dimensions. But beneath the practical considerations, something else stirred. Something like hope. Something that felt almost dangerous in its optimism.

I could almost see the small wooden slats criss-crossing their way along the span, bound by the upper railing that would reach chest height, providing not just passage but a semblance of safety. The kind of bridge you might find in a country park, the kind Claire and I had walked across a hundred times with the children on Sunday outings. We had a favourite—a wooden footbridge over a small pond near the Zinc Lakes, painted green and weathered by decades of families crossing it. Rose would always stop in the middle to look for fish. Mack would run ahead, impatient with her slowness, eager to reach whatever adventure waited on the other side.

Familiar. Reassuring. A piece of Earth transplanted to this alien soil.

Turrets guarding the entrance on either side painted a picture of medieval fortifications in my imagination, a simple layer of security that seemed both whimsical and desperately necessary. In this new world, where the unknown lurked at the edge of every decision, the thought of having a means to protect ourselves from an enemy seeking to cross—or offering us a route of escape across the river—felt both comforting and chilling. The night terrors were real. Joel's murderer was real. Whatever other threats awaited us in the darkness—they were real too. Beauty and defence didn't have to be mutually exclusive.

As the vision of the bridge solidified in my mind, I realised that it represented more than just a physical crossing; it was a bridge between our past and our future, a tangible link between the world we had lost and the one we were striving to build. Every plank we laid would be a statement of intent. Every nail we drove would be a declaration that we planned to stay, to survive, to thrive. Every piece of timber would be a promise to my children: I'm building this for you. I'm making a home for you. I'm going to bring you here, and it's going to be somewhere you can play and laugh and grow.

"Yes!" I cried out, the idea crystallising in my mind with such clarity it felt like a revelation. "That's what we need."

The words burst from me unbidden, surprising in their force. For a moment, I had forgotten where I was, forgotten the dust and the danger and the dozen unsolved mysteries pressing against my consciousness. For a moment, I was just a man with a plan, and the plan was good.

"What is?"

The sound of Glenda's voice, close behind me, jolted me from my thoughts. I hadn't heard her approach—too lost in the architecture of possibility, in the imagined future where my children played on a bridge I had helped build. She had a way of appearing silently, materialising out of the landscape without warning. I was beginning to wonder if it was a medical skill or something else entirely.

I turned quickly to face her, the excitement still bubbling inside me. "I was just thinking about what you said yesterday, about building a bridge."

The words tumbled out in a rush, my enthusiasm barely contained. It felt good to be excited about something, to think about construction rather than infection, about the future rather than the horrors of the past few days. It felt good to have a vision that extended beyond mere survival.

"Oh... and?" Glenda prompted, her interest piqued, her gaze steady and encouraging. She had a way of listening that made you feel heard, a quality I imagined served her well in medicine. Patients would trust that face. Patients would tell that face their fears.

I gestured towards the river, my arm sweeping across the landscape as I shared the vision that had taken root in my mind. The words came easily—the span, the railings, the turrets, the potential for both beauty and defence. As I spoke, I could see it more clearly with each passing moment, as if describing it somehow made it more real. Glenda nodded, her expression thoughtful, absorbing every detail of the plan I laid out before her.

Did she approve?

The question lingered in my mind, a silent plea for her support. I hadn't realised until that moment how much her opinion mattered to me. Perhaps because she was the only one here who seemed to know what she was doing. Perhaps because her calm competence was the closest thing to stability we had. Jamie criticised everything. Luke vanished when you needed him. Kain was too new, too overwhelmed. But Glenda—Glenda made sense. Glenda felt like solid ground.

"And if we make them tall enough, I can imagine those turrets would provide a spectacular view over the land," Glenda added, her voice tinged with a smile.

Her words, an endorsement of the idea's potential, filled me with a sense of validation. She saw it too. She could picture what I was describing, could imagine the structure standing proud over the river. She wasn't dismissing my vision as impractical or naive. She was building on it.

I grinned, buoyed by her response. "So, my simple idea has your approval then?" I joked, the tension of anticipation easing into a playful banter.

For a moment, we were just two people discussing a building project, not survivors in an alien dimension, not a businessman and a doctor thrown together by impossible circumstances. For a moment, we could have been colleagues reviewing plans in any office, any boardroom, any normal place on Earth.

Glenda's laughter, light and genuine, was a sound of agreement and camaraderie. "I think it's the perfect combination of daring further exploration and security. A balance of beauty and practicality."

"Exactly!" I exclaimed, a swell of pride and a newfound sense of ownership coursing through me as I envisioned the future we could build here.

This wasn't just survival anymore. This was creation. This was legacy. This was something that would outlast my time here, something my children could inherit and improve upon. This was the first real step toward building a home rather than merely occupying space.

I smiled to myself, lost in the thought of my children enjoying the fruits of our labour. Little Rose would love playing in the reeds, her laughter mingling with the quacks of ducks and the serene sounds of swans gliding across the lagoon. I could picture her running across the bridge, her small feet drumming on the wooden planks, her voice echoing across the water as she called for Mack to follow. She would stop in the middle to look at the water, just as she always did. She would insist on naming any fish she spotted. She would make this place her own with the easy confidence of a child who has never known a world that wasn't magic.

And Mack—I could just see him, claiming one of the turrets as his own fortress, a king surveying his domain with the imaginative seriousness only a ten-year-old could muster. He would stand at the top with a stick for a sword, defending his kingdom against imaginary enemies, exactly as he did in the garden at home with the climbing frame Claire and I had bought him for his eighth birthday. He would map the territory. He would name the landmarks. He would approach this alien world with the same methodical curiosity he brought to everything, turning fear into adventure through sheer force of will.

The memories ached, but they also strengthened. I wasn't just building for survival. I was building for them. Every decision I made, every structure I planned, every risk I calculated—it was all for them. They were the reason I had to make this work. They were the reason failure wasn't an option.

"We have to make this work, Glenda," I found myself saying, the weight of my decision pressing down on me, tempering the brief flight of fancy. "We just have to."

The determination in my voice was mirrored by the resolve in my heart. This wasn't just about survival anymore; it was about creating a space where hope could flourish, where my children could find joy and laughter. Where the horrors of the past few days could be relegated to memory rather than present reality. Where I could be the father I wanted to be, in a place that deserved to be called home.

Glenda's expression mirrored the truth of my words, her face growing serious. "I know," she replied, her voice firm, resolute.

Yet, as I studied her face, I saw something more beneath the surface—a pain and sadness that ran deep, hints of stories untold, of burdens carried silently. The lines around her eyes spoke of sleepless nights, of difficult decisions, of losses that hadn't healed. It was a reminder that each of us brought our own ghosts to this place, our own wounds that needed healing. Glenda had saved Jamie's life, had stitched Joel's throat, had treated my infection. But who was treating her? What losses had she suffered that she hadn't shared? What weight was she carrying behind that calm exterior?

With time, I hoped that Glenda would open up to me. The foundation of our small community had to be built on trust as much as on hope. If I was going to protect this community—and I was beginning to realise that someone had to—there could be no secrets, no surprises lurking in the shadows of our collective future. Luke's secrets had already caused enough damage. I didn't want any more.

As if sensing the shift in my thoughts, Glenda's soft smile returned, a gentle push against the heaviness of our conversation. "Shall we get this next tent up then?" she suggested, gesturing to the vacant space beside the medical tent.

The moment of vulnerability had passed, replaced by the practical demands of survival. There was always more work to be done. Always another task waiting. Always another distraction from the questions that had no answers.

"May as well," I agreed, the pragmatic part of me taking over once again.

Dreams of bridges and turrets could wait. Right now, we needed shelter. Right now, we needed something simpler and more achievable. The bridge would come later, when we had the resources and the time and the luxury of thinking beyond immediate needs.

"God, I can't believe we're almost done!"

The words burst from me in a mix of relief and disbelief as I surveyed our progress. The tent, a symbol of both shelter and practicality, stood nearly complete before us. The canvas stretched taut over the frame, the poles holding firm, the whole structure looking almost professional. A far cry from my fumbling attempts with Jamie on the first day, when every instruction had been met with criticism and every effort had been declared insufficient.

"Glenda, you are an expert with tents!" I called out, my voice carrying across the structure to where she worked on the far side.

The difference between working with her and working with Jamie was night and day. Where Jamie had criticised and complained, Glenda simply did. Where I had felt useless beside Jamie's hostility, I felt capable beside Glenda's quiet guidance. She corrected my mistakes without making me feel stupid. She anticipated problems before they arose. She made the whole process feel collaborative rather than combative.

"I've had plenty of practice," came her modest reply, a hint of a smile in her voice.

"Really?"

My curiosity was piqued. The ease with which she handled the tent, her calm amidst my struggle, hinted at a backstory I was eager to hear. Every new piece of information about Glenda felt like finding a puzzle piece—valuable, but only hinting at the larger picture that remained frustratingly incomplete.

"These are a lot simpler than the large medical tents we used in Borneo."

"Borneo? What were you doing there?" I couldn't help but ask, my interest now fully captured by the snippets of her past she had let slip. The question felt almost intrusive, but the curiosity was too strong to suppress. Who was this woman who knew about medical tents in Borneo and adapted to alien dimensions with such unsettling ease?

"Oh," Glenda chuckled, the sound rich with memories that she wasn't sharing. "That's a very long story. Perhaps we save it for the campfire sometime," she suggested, her voice carrying a promise of stories to come—or perhaps a deflection designed to postpone them indefinitely.

The reply was gentle but firm—an acknowledgment that there was more to tell, coupled with a clear indication that now was not the time. I respected the boundary even as it frustrated me. Everyone had their own timeline for sharing, their own pace for building trust. Glenda would tell me when she was ready, if she ever was. But the mystery of her deepened with every conversation, every carefully worded non-answer.

"Fair enough," I replied, intrigued but willing to wait for the tale.

My attention turned back to the task at hand, the tent that was our immediate challenge. But my mind kept circling back to Borneo. Medical tents. What kind of doctor worked in jungle medical tents? Aid workers. Disaster relief. Perhaps military medicine. The possibilities painted pictures of a life far more adventurous than suburban medical practice.

In my distraction, thinking about jungles and medical missions and the woman who seemed to have lived several lives before arriving in Clivilius, the tent wobbled ominously the moment I released the unstable pole. The whole structure swayed, threatening to collapse and undo all our work. The canvas rippled like a sail catching wind, and I lunged to grab the pole before everything came down.

"Aargh!"

Glenda's cry of frustration cut through the air, pulling me back from my thoughts. The pole on her side had clearly given way, the fabric billowing down toward her in a slow-motion avalanche of canvas.

"Glenda! You alright?"

Concern laced my words as I rushed to her side of the tent, ready to assist. The last thing we needed was an injury from a collapsing tent on top of everything else. The irony of surviving resurrection and infection only to be felled by camping equipment—.

"Yeah," she said, her voice muffled as she extricated herself from under the fabric. Her head emerged, hair dishevelled, expression rueful. "I just can't get this darn pole to stay right."

"Here, let me try," I offered, reaching under the fabric to find where Glenda's hand gripped the pole.

Together, we navigated the awkward angles and the stubbornness of inanimate objects. Her hand was warm against mine as we both tried to hold the pole steady, our fingers brushing as we adjusted our grip. The intimacy of the moment was unexpected—two people working in close quarters, united against a common enemy of collapsing canvas.

"It should just..." I murmured, trying to solve the puzzle of the pole and fabric. The mechanism was designed for ease of assembly, according to the instructions, but reality had other ideas. The slot that should have held the pole was too loose, or the pole was too thin, or the laws of physics in Clivilius worked differently than they did on Earth. At this point, nothing would have surprised me.

"Am I losing my mind?"

Kain's voice, tinged with confusion and disbelief, suddenly entered the camp. His arrival was unexpected—I'd lost track of time working on the tent, had forgotten he was still at the lagoon with Jamie and Joel. His figure appeared at the edge of my vision, standing near the dead campfire, looking like a man who had just woken from a nightmare to find it was real.

Both Glenda and I attempted to turn our heads, seeking out Kain while still maintaining our precarious grip on the collapsing structure. The movement was awkward, necks craning while hands remained locked in place.

"I don't understand any of this," he said, his voice a blend of bewilderment and frustration as he shook his head slowly.

He looked exactly how I had felt on my first day—overwhelmed, disoriented, struggling to accept a reality that made no sense. His shoulders slumped with the weight of impossibility. His eyes had the glazed quality of someone who had seen too much too quickly. I recognised that expression. I had worn it myself, not so long ago.

Glenda pushed her head further away from the edge of the tent, a manoeuvre that gave her just enough space to articulate her thoughts without the fabric muzzling her words. "Just give yourself a few days to adjust," she huffed, the effort of wrangling the tent not diminishing the firmness in her voice. "It'll all start to make sense in a few weeks."

"It will?"

My scepticism was barely veiled, my head poking out from underneath the sagging fabric in search of some assurance, some hint that the bewildering reality we found ourselves in would indeed become more manageable with time. I had been here three days and nothing made more sense than it had on day one. If anything, it made less sense—Guardians and murdered sons and resurrection in lagoons and arms that turned grey from a dead man's touch.

"Sure," Glenda affirmed, though her quick retreat back into the task at hand did little to bolster my confidence.

Easy for her to say. She seemed to have adapted to this place with an ease that bordered on suspicious. While the rest of us floundered, Glenda moved through Clivilius like she had been here before. Like she knew something the rest of us didn't. The thought nagged at me, another piece of the puzzle that didn't quite fit.

My gaze shifted to Kain, who stood by the remnants of the cold campfire, his posture betraying a similar scepticism. He had been here less than a day, had been pushed through a Portal without warning, had discovered his uncle's son with a slit throat still somehow breathing. If anyone had reason to be losing their mind, it was him. The fact that he was standing upright and speaking coherently was something of a miracle in itself.

"So, how is Joel doing anyway?" I asked, hoping for some sliver of good news regarding his situation. The last I'd seen, Joel had been submerged in the lagoon, gasping back to life in a display that defied every law of nature I had ever learned. What had happened since?

Kain paused, the question seeming to weigh heavily on him. His face cycled through several expressions—confusion, discomfort, something that might have been fear—before settling on a carefully neutral mask.

"He's... umm... he's alive, I guess."

His hesitation, the uncertainty in his voice, spoke volumes. Alive wasn't the same as well. Alive wasn't the same as recovered. Alive wasn't the same as the person Joel had been before someone had slit his throat and left him for dead. Alive was simply not dead—the lowest possible bar, and even that seemed uncertain in a world where the dead could return.

"That's great..."

My attempt at optimism felt hollow, even to my own ears. The trailing end of the sentence acknowledged what we all knew—being alive in Joel's condition was only the beginning of a very long road. A road with no map and no guarantee of destination.

"Hey, Kain," Glenda called out with a purpose that seemed too convenient to be coincidental. "It looks as though we've left the tent pegs for the next tent back at the Drop Zone. Would you go have a look, please?"

The request came smoothly, naturally, as if she had just remembered an overlooked detail. But something in her timing felt deliberate. We had been discussing Joel, Kain had been struggling with the impossibility of everything—and suddenly Glenda needed him elsewhere. The transition was too seamless, too perfectly timed to be accident.

"Sure," Kain replied, his nonchalant shrug masking any thoughts he might have had about the timing of Glenda's request. Perhaps he was grateful for the excuse to walk away. Perhaps he needed the space more than he was willing to admit.

"Thanks. It's probably a small, rectangular box."

Glenda's instructions floated after Kain as he walked away, leaving us in a bubble of temporary privacy. I watched him go, his figure growing smaller against the red landscape, the dust rising with each footstep and hanging in the air behind him like a trail of questions.

I waited until he was safely out of earshot before turning to Glenda.

"Really?" I shot at her, my tone laden with disbelief. "You want to tell me what that was really about?"

"What?"

Glenda's response was the picture of innocence, her face betraying nothing that might suggest an ulterior motive. She had the composure of a poker player, giving away nothing she didn't want to give away. Her eyes met mine without flinching, without the tell-tale flicker of someone caught in a deception.

"I remembered I left them on top of one of the larger boxes. I meant to go back for it."

I eyed her suspiciously, my mind racing through the possibilities. Had she genuinely forgotten? Or had she seen something in Kain's demeanour that worried her—some fragility that needed space rather than conversation? Was she protecting him, or protecting the rest of us from whatever breakdown might be brewing behind his bewildered eyes? The doctor in her would know the signs of someone approaching a psychological limit. The doctor in her would know when intervention helped and when it hurt.

"You're a woman of great mystery, Glenda, I'll give you that," I conceded, the honesty in my words reflecting both my frustration and my growing respect for her.

Glenda's ability to navigate the unfamiliar with such poise and foresight was as baffling as it was admirable. Borneo. Medical tents. The calm in every crisis. The secrets she kept so carefully guarded. The way she seemed to anticipate problems before they arose and manage people without appearing to manage them at all. She was either the most naturally capable person I had ever met, or she was hiding something significant about her relationship with this place.

She offered me a slight smile—the kind that acknowledged the observation without confirming or denying anything. The kind that said she knew exactly what she was doing and had no intention of explaining herself. The kind that drove me slightly mad while simultaneously earning my grudging admiration.

Fair enough. Everyone was entitled to their mysteries.

But as we returned to wrestling with the tent pole, I couldn't help but add Glenda to my mental list of things I didn't fully understand about this place. The lagoon and its healing properties. The night terrors and their source. Luke and his secrets about Guardians and Cody and whatever else he was keeping to himself. And now Glenda—the doctor who seemed too prepared, too calm, too capable for someone supposedly as new to Clivilius as the rest of us.

In time, perhaps, the mysteries would unravel. In time, perhaps, we would all know each other well enough to share the stories we were holding back. But for now, we had a tent to finish, a bridge to dream about, and a community to build.

One mystery at a time.