Muesli Bars & Concrete Plans

“In the hierarchy of survival, breakfast comes just before infrastructure.”

Making my way back to the supply tent, my steps were purposeful, though tinged with the weary resignation of someone bracing for disappointment. The soft crunch of dust beneath my boots and the gentle flap of the tent in the breeze provided a quiet soundtrack to my morning task. Inside, the right wing of our makeshift storage area housed the several bags of groceries we had managed to gather—haphazardly packed, but precious nonetheless.

Kneeling beside them, I began to sift through the contents, pushing aside crumpled carrier bags and loose plastic wrap. A slight grimace formed before I could stop it. The contents were... sobering. Paul had scraped together a passable dinner the previous night, a warm meal that had felt like a triumph at the time. But in the cold light of morning, the reality of our provisions struck with full force.

Tins of corn. Baked beans. More baked beans. Dog food—far more dog food than one might reasonably expect, even accounting for Duke and Henri’s presence. A solitary tin of fruit cocktail, dented and suspect. My stomach, which had only moments ago demanded breakfast with a rumbling declaration, seemed to reconsider. I stared down at the uninspiring array, an involuntary sigh slipping from my lips.

Luke’s going to need some guidance with his food selection, I mused dryly, imagining his choices made in haste or desperation. It wasn’t his fault—we were all improvising—but the thought carried a quiet exasperation nonetheless. My fingers hovered over the labels, mentally calculating how many meals we could reasonably stretch from what we had. The answer wasn’t encouraging.

Then, among the tins and battered packaging, something caught my eye—a corner of white folded neatly, half-tucked beneath a packet of powdered mashed potato. Curious, I pulled it free and unfolded it. My eyebrows lifted.

A basic guide to cement-laying.

“Interesting,” I muttered, the word edged with a scoff of disbelief. The corners of my mouth twitched into a wry smile. It was such a peculiar, almost absurd find—practical, yes, and potentially invaluable down the line—but so wildly out of step with what I’d expected to find among our morning supplies that it nearly made me laugh. As if our survival depended not only on treating wounds and rationing food, but on setting proper footings for infrastructure. Maybe it did.

Folding the paper carefully, I slipped it into my back pocket, the gesture unthinking yet deliberate. Another hat to wear. Doctor, camp cook, and now... construction apprentice. I felt the weight of it all settle gently between my shoulders, not yet crushing, but steadily accumulating.

Then, like a gift from the gods of practicality and breakfast alike, my hand closed around a rectangular box hidden at the bottom of the last bag. My fingers tightened instinctively, and I pulled it free with a small flourish. The label confirmed what I had hoped.

“Aha! Finally, something edible for breakfast,” I breathed with a smile, genuine delight lighting up my face.

Breakfast muesli bars—dry, probably stale, and likely less satisfying than their cheerful packaging suggested. But still. Real food. Something I could eat without a tin opener or a campfire. A small victory in an otherwise uphill morning.

Even here, in Clivilius, a halfway decent breakfast could still feel like hope.

Stepping outside, the cool morning air hit my face like a splash of water—refreshing, grounding. The rumbling of my stomach grew more insistent, a crude yet familiar reminder that the body still had needs, even in a place as surreal as Clivilius. Eagerly, I tore the wrapper from one of the muesli bars and took a hearty bite. The dry crunch and sweet notes of dried fruit and oats were a far cry from gourmet, but after twenty-four hours of medical emergencies and stress-induced nausea, it tasted like a luxury. Something other than canned beans or corn—thank heavens.

The fleeting joy of the moment flickered, though, as I looked down at the remaining half of the bar. Another two bites, maybe three if I were disciplined. Then it would be gone, and I’d be back to staring down tins of creamed corn and dog biscuits. I sighed, swallowing the mouthful with reluctant gratitude. Still, it would do. This modest breakfast was energy. It was fuel. It was one small act of self-care amidst the nothingness.

Movement at the edge of my vision caught my attention. By the remains of last night’s fire—now little more than ash and scattered charcoal—Paul was beginning to stir. He lay half-curled in the dust, one arm shielding his face until Henri trotted over and greeted him with a slobbery lick square across the cheek. Paul groaned, pushing the dog away with a groggy mix of annoyance and affection. The absurdity of the moment coaxed a soft chuckle from me.

"You must have been tired," I called out, my voice laced with both humour and sympathy.

Paul blinked up at me, rubbing the back of his neck as if to knead out the stiffness that sleeping on bare earth had no doubt inflicted. His hair was mussed with dust, and a faint red mark traced the side of his face where a stone had probably made itself known during the night.

"Yeah, I was," he said simply, his tone still heavy with sleep.

"You fell asleep pretty quick," I noted, stepping closer, brushing some dust from my trousers as I moved. It wasn’t just conversation—it was connection, routine. Something human.

As he sat up more fully, his expression still groggy, I extended the second muesli bar. "Here, want some breakfast?" It was a modest offering, but in this place, even the smallest gesture felt like a significant act of care. Sharing food, no matter how uninspiring, was a way of saying we were in this together.

Paul offered a faint smile of thanks, but shook his head. "Thanks, but I think I might go have a quick wash first," he said, already brushing the dirt from his shirt and giving his scalp a shake, sending a puff of reddish dust into the air.

I gave an understanding nod. I could practically feel the grit on my own skin, the discomfort of dried sweat and dust mingling along the back of my neck. "In the river?" I asked, though the answer was obvious.

"Yeah," he replied, his voice touched with resignation. "It’s all we’ve got."

"Fair enough," I said with a shrug. Even a splash of cool water would help restore a sense of self—one of the few remaining luxuries in this bare-bones world. "But make sure you eat when you get back. You need to keep your strength up. Soon we start putting up the third tent and then later we pour some concrete."

That got his attention. Paul’s head turned towards me, one eyebrow lifting with a mix of amusement and mild disbelief. "Oh?"

"Yes," I replied, unable to stop the smile spreading across my face. "I found your concrete instructions. They were in one of the grocery bags."

His other eyebrow joined the first, and this time a chuckle escaped him. The absurdity of it wasn’t lost on either of us—cement-laying guides tucked away between tins of beans and muesli bars. But there was something comforting in it too. It was structure. It was purpose.

As Paul stood, his movements were slow but deliberate—each stretch and shift of weight a clear effort to shake off not only the stiffness of sleep but the ever-present film of Clivilius dust that clung to skin and fabric like a second, unwelcome layer. He bent slightly, brushing down his legs, sending pale puffs spiralling into the morning air. His face was tight with concentration, eyes narrowed as though willing himself into wakefulness. The simple ritual of rising became a statement in itself: a declaration that rest was over and the demands of survival were waiting.

My gaze drifted beyond Paul, drawn by instinct to the section of terrain near our makeshift camp where he and Jamie had attempted their first patch of concrete. The small slab was uneven and slightly discoloured even from a distance. I narrowed my eyes, scrutinising the surface from afar. The edges didn’t sit flush, and one corner had already begun to crumble. A sigh escaped me unbidden.

What the hell is Paul thinking?

The question wasn’t born of judgement but of rising concern. Slapping concrete on the ground without proper preparation might’ve felt productive in the moment, but in the long term? A waste of effort. Still, I couldn’t fault the location. Whoever had chosen it had done so with a strategic eye—it was close enough to be convenient, yet far enough not to intrude on our living space. There was a sense of spatial awareness, a subconscious grasp of planning we’d have to nurture if we were to survive long-term.

"Where are Jamie and Duke?" Paul called out, his voice muffled as his head briefly popped out from within Jamie’s tent.

His question tugged me back to the now, interrupting my inspection of uneven cement and dragging my thoughts away from structural integrity. I blinked, trying to clear the lingering haze of frustration, and refocused on him.

"They've gone for a walk. He seems much better this morning," I answered, warmth and caution mingling in my voice.

"That's good," Paul said, nodding slightly before retreating again into the tent. The faint rustle of canvas followed, then silence.

Moments later, he emerged fully, tugging his shirt down with a distracted motion. "Do you know which way they went?"

I glanced towards the horizon, squinting slightly against the brightening light. His tone wasn’t demanding, just curious—but there was something else there, too. A subtle undercurrent of protectiveness, maybe. Or maybe it was just the sensible worry of someone who understood all too well how unfamiliar and indifferent this world could be.

"They've headed downstream," I said, pointing in the direction Jamie had described earlier. "Jamie mentioned there’s a lagoon just around the bend."

Paul’s face shifted slightly, an expression caught somewhere between recognition and amusement. "Yeah. It’s a nice spot. There's nothing there except water and dust, but you should check it out sometime."

The way he said it made me smile—there was something almost nostalgic in his tone, as if the barren stretch of land held a charm only someone acclimatising to Clivilius could recognise. I imagined the spot: still, quiet, sheltered by the land’s natural folds. An oasis, perhaps, by our current standards.

"I might wait until I have some clothes to change into," I replied, with a wry smile. It wasn’t embarrassment that held me back—it was the simple reality of our limitations. No towels. No spare clothing. No real privacy. The practicalities of cleanliness had become a tactical operation.

And yet, the thought lingered. The lagoon. Solitude. The sound of water.

It wouldn’t hurt to have something to look forward to.

As Paul made his way past me, heading downstream towards the lagoon, a ripple of curiosity stirred behind my eyes. I watched him go, his gait purposeful but unhurried, clearly set on his morning wash. And yet, the direction he’d taken… I narrowed my eyes slightly, a flicker of amusement curling in my chest. Surely Paul isn’t going to bathe with his clothes on. The thought made me smirk. Then again, this was Paul—pragmatic, occasionally oblivious, and always walking the line between earnestness and eccentricity.

But when he stopped short, glancing ahead with sudden recognition, the situation turned comedy. His head tilted, a scoff slipped from his lips, and he gave himself a mental kick audible even in his voice. "Oh!"

His sharp pivot and the emphatic point upstream—"I'll go upstream"—landed like a well-timed punchline. I bit back a laugh, not out of ridicule, but because it was so delightfully normal. That flash of realisation, the awkward backpedal, it was a moment steeped in human fallibility, the kind of social stumble we all knew too well. And here, in the dust of Clivilius, it felt like a gift—an echo of the world we’d left behind.

He is a funny man indeed, I thought, and this time the smile came freely. Wide, unguarded, and sincere. It lingered as I turned away, warmth blooming in my chest like sunlight on frost.

My feet found their path towards the Portal. The encounter with Paul—brief, simple, human—was a balm, easing the quiet ache that had taken root in me since arrival. But the closer I drew to the Portal, the more the mood shifted, sobering with every step. It stood there as it always had, strange and unmoving, an open wound in the air itself. A symbol of endings and beginnings. A threshold to something more—or less.

The dusty wind stirred gently around it, as if even Clivilius breathed differently near its edge.

This was why we were here.

For all the awkwardness and improvised breakfasts, all the muesli bars and concrete mishaps, the Portal reminded me that our presence had a purpose. It whispered of questions still unanswered and paths yet travelled. And maybe, just maybe, if we endured long enough, if we leaned into the humanity that had brought us this far, Clivilius might offer more than survival.

It might offer a future.