Mornings Like These

“Back on Earth, a slow morning meant burnt toast and a missed tram. Here, it means checking your patient still has a pulse.”

Emerging from the tent, I was immediately struck by the stillness. The firepit—once a glowing nucleus of warmth and camaraderie—now sat cold and grey, a hollow reminder of last night’s flickering life. My eyes scanned the space automatically, expecting to see Paul slouched on one of the logs, perhaps stirring the ashes or cradling a tin of something hot. But he wasn’t there.

The realisation nudged something uneasy in me, and my wandering thoughts were quickly pulled into sharp focus as I noticed the trail of footprints scored faintly into the dust. They curved away from the camp in a deliberate arc. Without hesitation, my legs moved to follow the path, each step crunching softly underfoot, a quiet echo of purpose.

The trail led me beyond the comfort of canvas and into the gentle murmur of the riverside. There he was—Paul—crouched low near the bank, the early morning light casting long, angled shadows across his frame. He was bent in concentration, the discarded bandage fluttering weakly beside him as he scrutinised the wound on his arm.

"That's looking really healthy," I said, stepping forward, my voice unexpectedly cutting through the hush. He jolted, a sharp twitch betraying his surprise, nearly toppling from his perch on the uneven stones.

"We have to stop meeting like this," he replied, grinning sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck with his uninjured hand.

My head tilted slightly. I blinked. Meeting like what?

Paul caught my expression and chuckled softly. "I mean you sneaking up behind me at the river," he clarified, the memory of our earlier encounter clearly fresh in his mind.

A quiet breath escaped me, part apology, part amusement. "Sorry," I murmured as I knelt beside him, slipping seamlessly back into a clinical focus. My eyes scanned the injury, noting the way the edges had knitted together, pink and clean. Healing. The river’s influence again, perhaps? I gently turned his arm in my hands, and Paul didn’t flinch. His gaze, however, wandered—past me, past the river—lost somewhere in the rippling water and rising mist.

I took my time with the assessment. There weren’t many tasks left in this strange world that offered the comfort of familiarity, but this—wounds, healing, recovery—was still mine.

When I was done, I released his arm and rose, brushing the dust from my trousers. "Keep a close eye on it. Notify me immediately if anything changes. And remember to soak the bandages in the river," I added, the last instruction carrying a weight that extended beyond medicine. This water, this place… it held something. Maybe everything.

"Of course. I'll watch it closely," Paul replied, standing to join me. His tone was steady, grounded—an anchor in the drift of our uncertain morning.

I offered a faint smile in return, the moment shared but not lingered on. My thoughts had already shifted, snapping back to Joel, to the break in his finger and the improvised treatment plan awaiting my return. Duty called, even here. Especially here.

"Hey, Glenda?" Paul’s voice carried gently through the morning air, threaded with hesitation, as if he were testing the weight of his words before committing to them.

I turned towards him, my movements fluid. The rising sun had begun to warm the chill from the earth, and its golden light cast long, lazy shadows across the camp. “Yes, Paul,” I answered, meeting his gaze.

“Are you happy to keep sleeping in the medical tent for now? If so, Kain and I could share that third tent and we can leave Jamie and Joel where they are,” he suggested, the tone of his voice suggesting diplomacy, as though he’d rehearsed the phrasing in his mind beforehand. “Oh, and Luke, if he ever decides to stay the night,” he added, the final remark tossed in like an afterthought, though it clearly wasn’t. Beneath the lightness of his tone, there was something else—uncertainty, maybe even concern.

“Sure,” I replied, shrugging with an easy nonchalance. Where I slept hardly mattered. After all, what was a sleeping arrangement compared to the strange phenomenon of resurrection or the uncharted implications of lagoon water? “I don’t have any issues with that.”

“Great. I’ll move my suitcase across as soon as Jamie is awake,” he continued, already plotting his course of action aloud, like a man grasping for routine in the face of absurdity.

“They are both awake now. I was just in with them,” I said, watching the flicker of surprise dance briefly across his face.

“Oh,” he muttered, digesting the update. “Joel too?” His voice was softer now, laced with genuine curiosity—perhaps even relief.

“Yes. He has a broken finger, but apart from that, he looks to be making a speedy recovery. It’s quite remarkable, really,” I said, the awe still lingering in my chest like the aftertaste of something too strange to fully understand.

“It is very odd,” Paul agreed, the words hanging between us as we walked, their weight heavier than the casual tone implied. “I may as well move my stuff now then,” he added after a beat, his decision seemingly crystallised.

“I don’t think they’d mind,” I replied, glancing towards the tent.

Then, his tone shifted, softening like a leaf easing its descent to the ground. “Do you know if Kain slept alright?” he asked, nodding towards the young man now beginning to stir beside the ash-grey remnants of last night’s fire.

I studied Paul for a moment, taken slightly aback. “I assume so. I didn’t notice anything unusual,” I answered honestly, unsure why the question had unsettled me slightly. “Why do you ask?”

“Just making sure we’re all safe, I guess,” he murmured, as though still trying to convince himself that everything was fine. That we were fine. That this place, for all its strangeness, wouldn’t tear us apart from the inside.

“You could ask him yourself. He’s awake now,” I said, offering a simple solution and subtly nudging him towards connection.

“Sure, okay,” he nodded, his chin dipping once in quiet affirmation. “I’ll do that then. I’ll just grab my bag first.”

He gave me a small, almost sheepish smile—one of those that reveals more than it hides—and stepped lightly past me, disappearing into the tent. I watched him go, the moment lingering. We were all adjusting, in our own ways. To this place. To each other. To the things we couldn’t explain and the people we were still becoming.

Turning toward my own tent, I was gently interrupted by Kain's approach, his movements deliberate, yet carrying the relaxed gait of someone still waking to the day. The sun had climbed a little higher, softening the shadows and warming the dust beneath our feet.

"Have you seen Uncle Jamie this morning?" His voice, rough with sleep and still bearing the gravel of an unspoken worry, carried a note of concern—or perhaps just the simple need to reconnect, to confirm that those he cared about were still here, still breathing, still real.

"I have," I replied, coming to a full stop and giving him my undivided attention. In a place where so much was shifting and uncertain, those small courtesies—eye contact, presence, acknowledgement—felt like acts of defiance against the unravelled state of our world. "You should go and visit with him."

"I will," Kain affirmed, stretching his arms high above his head. His back arched slightly, bones audibly clicking as the stiffness of the night gave way to morning's momentum. He followed it with a vigorous rub at the back of his neck, rousing himself into full wakefulness.

"Do you have a preference as to which side?" Paul's voice cut across the campsite, clear and abrupt, a contrast to the more languid tone of our exchange. He emerged from Jamie's tent with a travel bag slung over one shoulder, the gesture confirming his intent to make a proper move.

"You and Paul are moving into the third tent," I said, addressing Kain directly and watching his features knit briefly in confusion before smoothing again. Clearly, Paul's question had come without context.

"They're both the same, really," Kain replied after a short pause, his tone indifferent, unconcerned. His shoulders rolled back as he stretched a second time, arms high again, as if to shrug off the weight of unnecessary deliberation.

There was something deeply grounding about his simplicity—his ability to take things as they came without overcomplicating them. Impressive, I mused, my gaze lingering on him. In a setting where control was illusory and chaos always lurked just beneath the surface, Kain’s adaptability was more than a personality trait—it was a survival mechanism. His casual response, while seeming flippant on the surface, was in fact a quiet display of resilience. In many ways, it was exactly what we needed.

"I'm going for a walk to the Drop Zone," Paul announced as he reappeared from the tent he now shared with Kain, brushing the dust from his trousers. "Take stock of what Luke's left us."

"I doubt you'll find anything new. I haven't seen him yet this morning," I replied, meeting Paul's eye. "But I'm sure there could be some useful things we didn't notice before."

Paul gave a brief nod before setting off, his figure soon shrinking in the distance, framed by the shimmering heat beginning to rise off the ground. Kain, too, drifted away towards Jamie, their departure leaving a rare hush in the heart of camp—a moment of solitude that felt both precious and precarious.

Grasping the moment, I turned and made my way into the medical supply tent. The canvas flap fell shut behind me, and the filtered sunlight turned gold as it seeped through the seams. Inside, the air was dry and tinged with the sterile tang of antiseptic—faint, but lingering. I stood still for a moment, letting my eyes adjust to the dimness, and with it came the heavy thud of responsibility settling back on my shoulders.

The shelves were sparse, lined with the remnants of what Luke had managed to secure. It wasn’t much. But it had to be enough.

Methodically, I began to gather what I would need for Joel’s finger—bandages, gauze, antiseptic wipes, medical tape, and a splint fashioned from a repurposed plastic strip. Each item was placed into a canvas bag with care. As I worked, a subtle thread of resolve wove itself through the frayed fabric of my nerves. The supplies were limited, yes—but I wasn’t. Not yet.

By the time I stepped back into the sunlight, the bag in my hand felt heavier than its contents suggested. It carried more than bandages and antiseptic. It carried hope—and the unspoken promise that, despite everything, I would do what I could to keep us all whole.