One Bean at a Time

"There was a scream outside. Could have been murder. Could have been monsters. But I had scrambled eggs, and a man's got to have priorities."

The enticing scent of a hot-cooked breakfast filled the tent, signalling Jamie's return with Duke at his heels, carrying a bucket of water.

The smell hit me like a freight truck.

Bacon. Eggs. Something tomatoey that made my salivary glands wake up and start screaming. My stomach, empty and eager, responded with a cranky rumble that sounded like a transmission about to drop out.

When did I last eat?

I tried to remember. The morning of the delivery. Toast and coffee at home. Mum had been at work already, so I'd eaten standing at the kitchen counter, checking my phone.

That was... two days ago? Three? Time had become slippery since the void.

"Smells good," I managed to croak out, my voice still raw, as I struggled to sit up.

The words scraped against my throat, but they came out. Progress.

"Do you think you could eat?" Jamie asked, his eyes following Henri's sudden alertness at the mention of food.

Henri's reaction brought a faint smile to my face.

The chubby dog had transformed from sleepy lump to quivering attention in approximately half a second. His whole body oriented toward the tent flap, nose twitching, tail beginning a hopeful wag.

Same, mate. Same.

The chubby dog had been my constant, albeit lazy, companion, oscillating between napping at my feet and his own bed. But apparently food trumped comfort. Food trumped everything.

"I could try," I said, my voice betraying my uncertainty.

Eating felt like a monumental task, but the aroma was too tempting to resist. My stomach had gone from polite suggestion to aggressive demand. It didn't care that my throat was damaged, that swallowing might hurt, that I'd been essentially dead forty-eight hours ago.

It wanted food. Now.

Jamie closed his eyes for a moment, savouring the smell of the food, then opened them with a renewed sense of purpose.

"I'll go and get you some," he declared.

Duke and Henri, ever hopeful for scraps, trailed behind him as he exited the tent.

Traitors, I thought, watching Henri abandon his post at my feet. Food appears and suddenly I'm yesterday's news.

I adjusted myself on the mattress, trying to find a comfortable position.

My body felt weak and uncooperative, but the promise of food was a small motivation to move. I managed to prop myself against several fir pillows, achieving something approximating vertical.

The effort left me breathing hard. Pathetic. But I was sitting up under my own power, which was more than I could have managed yesterday.

Small victories, I reminded myself. Count the small victories.

Jamie soon returned, the delicious smell intensifying as he entered.

He handed me a plate piled with steaming food.

Scrambled eggs. Baked beans in that orange sauce that came from tins. Bacon—proper bacon, not the thin American stuff, but thick rashers with actual substance. The plate was warm in my hands, almost too hot, but I didn't care.

"Here, see how you go," he said. "You might need to leave the bacon if it's too hard to chew or scratchy on your throat."

I nodded in understanding, my eyes fixed on the plate.

Leave the bacon. Right. Sure.

The bacon looked perfect. Crispy edges, soft centres. The kind of bacon Mum made on Sunday mornings when she wasn't working, back when I was a kid and Sundays meant cartoons and breakfast in front of the telly. Back when we could actually afford bacon.

Focusing on my trembling fingers, I cautiously picked a single baked bean from the plate and carefully placed it in my mouth.

The simplicity of the action felt like a victory.

One bean. That's all I'd managed. One small, orange, sauce-covered bean.

But it was mine. I had picked it up and put it in my mouth like a normal human being. Like someone who wasn't a medical anomaly being studied for lagoon-related miracles.

The bean's warmth and soft texture were comforting, and I savoured the taste, feeling a small surge of hope.

Each small step, like eating a baked bean, was a reminder that despite my current state, there were still simple pleasures to be found, and perhaps, a long road of recovery ahead.

One bean at a time, I thought. That's how you eat an elephant. One bite at a time.

Mum used to say that when I complained about homework. Or chores. Or anything that seemed overwhelming.

One bite at a time, Joel. You'll get there.

The sudden, jarring scream shattered the calm of the morning, echoing sharply through the air.

The sound cut through everything—the quiet satisfaction of eating, the warmth of the tent, the simple pleasure of being alive.

A woman's scream. High and sharp and full of something that might have been terror or might have been rage. Hard to tell from inside the tent.

Jamie's reaction was immediate; his eyes widened, a look of panic flashing across his face.

Without uttering a single word, he bolted out of the tent, his rapid departure leaving a gust of wind in its wake.

The canvas flap swung wildly. Dust swirled. And then he was gone.

What the hell was that?

I should have been concerned. Should have felt alarm, curiosity, the urge to know what was happening. A scream like that back home would have had me calling triple zero, checking windows, doing something.

But here?

Despite the chaos and alarm that the scream incited, my focus remained unwaveringly on the plate of food in front of me.

The sensation of hunger had become all-consuming, overshadowing the surrounding tumult.

Sorry, screaming lady. Whatever's happening out there, it's going to have to wait.

It had been what felt like an eternity since I'd last eaten, and each bite was a revelation.

The baked beans' sauce mingled perfectly with the scrambled eggs, each mouthful sliding down my throat like a soothing balm.

The eggs were soft—cooked just right, not rubbery, not runny. Whoever had made this knew what they were doing. The beans added sweetness and acidity, cutting through the richness.

This is the best meal I've ever eaten.

It probably wasn't, objectively. It was camp food, cooked over an open fire, served on a plate that had seen better days. But to my starving body, it was a Michelin-starred feast.

Absorbed in the act of eating, I meticulously sucked the tangy tomato sauce from each of my fingers, relishing the flavour and texture.

I didn't care how it looked. Didn't care if anyone walked in and saw me licking my fingers like a kid who'd gotten into the biscuit tin. The sauce was too good to waste.

I slowly moved on to the second plate, my appetite voracious.

Wait. Second plate?

I hadn't even noticed Jamie leaving a second plate. Hadn't registered eating the first one. The food had simply... disappeared. Down my throat and into my stomach like water down a drain.

The food was not just nourishment; it was a momentary escape, a brief respite from the pain and uncertainty that had become my constant companions.

"Fuck me!"

Jamie's expression was one of both shock and amusement as he watched me hungrily devour the last of the scrambled eggs.

I froze mid-bite, a morsel of egg clutched between fingers suspended halfway to my mouth.

How long has he been standing there?

Duke, ever the opportunist, gleefully snatched up the crumbs that slipped through my fingers.

The little dog had positioned himself perfectly—just far enough away to avoid getting kicked, just close enough to catch any fallout. A professional scavenger. I respected the technique.

The simple act of eating, something so mundane in my past life, now felt like an immense victory, a reclaiming of something I had lost.

I had eaten. Actually eaten. Two plates of food. My body had remembered how to do this, had remembered that it needed fuel, had performed a basic biological function without catastrophic failure.

Take that, death. I'm eating breakfast.

Catching Jamie's wide-eyed gaze, I wanted to explain my ravenous appetite, to say how famished I felt, but my mouth was too full to articulate words.

Instead, I grimaced slightly, my hunger still unsated, and reached for the plate of untouched bacon.

The bacon was calling to me. Had been calling to me since I'd started on the eggs. Leave the bacon, Jamie had said. Too hard to chew. Scratchy on your throat.

Jamie, sensing my intention, quickly knelt beside the mattress.

"I'll get it," he offered, picking up the plate and bringing it closer to me.

But the moment I tried to grab a piece, I pushed the plate away and rubbed my throat, the tender muscles protesting at the thought of anything more challenging than soft eggs and beans.

Shit.

The first touch of crispy bacon edge against my throat had sent a spike of warning. Not quite pain, but the promise of pain. The damaged tissue announcing that it wasn't quite ready for this level of challenge.

"Eating the bacon makes it sore?" Jamie inquired, concern lacing his voice.

I nodded, offering a half-smile as I chased an errant bean back into my mouth.

Betrayed by bacon. What a way to go.

It was a small concession to my aching throat, but necessary. The eggs and beans had been a victory. The bacon could wait for another day.

Jamie's grin widened.

"Suppose I can eat it then," he said, his hand moving towards the crispy bacon.

In a flash, Henri appeared, eyes fixed on the plate, his instincts kicking in.

The dog had materialised from nowhere. One second absent, the next right there, nose inches from the bacon, whole body vibrating with want.

Impressive speed for such a chubby little thing.

But before the little dog could claim his prize, Jamie yanked the plate away, scolding him.

"Henri! No more!"

Henri, understanding the reprimand, retreated to his bed with a sullen expression and a tail tucked between his legs.

I watched the exchange with a mixture of amusement and empathy.

Henri's disappointment mirrored my own—a simple longing for more, tempered by the realities of our circumstances.

I feel you, mate. Denied bacon is a tragedy.

Watching Jamie stuff the last piece of bacon into his mouth, I could only nod in response to his words.

"I suppose I'd better check on Glenda," he said.

Glenda.

Right. The scream. Something had happened outside while I'd been face-first in breakfast, ignoring the world in favour of carbohydrates.

As he left the tent, the absence of his presence was immediately felt, leaving a void that seemed to stretch the passage of time.

The tent felt emptier without him. Larger and smaller at the same time, somehow. The canvas walls seemed to press in, then recede, then press in again.

You're being dramatic, I told myself. He's just gone to check on something. He'll be back.

But I didn't like being alone here. Didn't like the silence that crept in when people left. In the silence, I could hear things I didn't want to hear—the echo of that cold voice, the memory of the void, the whispered reminder that I belonged to something I didn't understand.

Lying there alone, the sounds of voices from outside filtered into the tent.

They were loud, animated, carrying with them the energy and dynamics of unknown individuals who had come to the camp.

New voices. Voices I didn't recognise. More than one, maybe three or four, tangled together in conversation or argument—hard to tell which from inside the tent.

Who were these new arrivals? What stories did they bring to this already complex tapestry?

My curiosity piqued, but my body was a stark reminder of my limitations.

Each attempt to move sent waves of aching pain through my muscles, echoing the ordeal my body had been through.

I wanted to get up. Wanted to walk to the tent flap and peer outside, see what was happening, who these people were. But my legs had other ideas. My legs had declared themselves officially closed for business.

Resigned, yet determined to do something productive, I turned my attention to the bucket of water Jamie had brought earlier.

It was within reach, a small yet significant detail that offered a semblance of independence.

The lagoon water. For my neck.

Glenda's instructions came back to me. Keep the wound moistened. The lagoon had healing properties—had brought me back from the dead, apparently, so dabbing some on my throat seemed like reasonable medical advice.

With a concerted effort, I managed to shift my position, my arms trembling with exertion as I reached for the bucket.

The coolness of the water was a welcome sensation against my skin.

I soaked a cloth and gently dabbed at my neck, the area that had been most affected.

The wound was still there. I could feel the ridge of it beneath my fingertips—the line where my throat had been cut open, now held together by neat stitches. Glenda's handiwork, presumably. Done while I was floating in the void, unaware that anyone was trying to put me back together.

Stitches. Like I'm a torn delivery bag that someone's patched up with a sewing kit.

The thread felt strange against my skin. Foreign. A row of tiny knots holding flesh together that should have stayed apart, that should have meant death. Healing, but present. A permanent reminder of what had happened at 2 Wallcrest Road.

Souvenir from Berriedale, I thought darkly. Thanks for visiting, here's your scar.

Each touch of the damp cloth was soothing, offering a small reprieve from the lingering discomfort.

As I tended to myself, my mind wandered to the voices outside.

Everyone here had come through that Portal. Everyone here had been claimed by Clivilius, whether they knew it or not. We were all refugees from a world we couldn't return to, thrown together by circumstances none of us had chosen.

My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching the tent.

I paused, the cloth in my hand, waiting to see who would enter next, what new interaction or information they might bring.

The footsteps were quick. Purposeful. Someone walking with intent rather than casual wandering.

Jamie's abrupt entrance into the tent, coupled with his immediate comment about "Luke's latest fuck-up," only served to deepen my frown.

Luke's latest fuck-up.

So there had been more than one. This was a pattern, apparently. Luke doing things that Jamie classified as fuck-ups.

His tone carried a tinge of exasperation and disappointment, painting a complex picture of my father that was far from the one I had constructed in my mind.

There was a clear disconnect between the Jamie I was getting to know and the one I had imagined.

For nineteen years, I'd built a ghost. A fantasy father who would have been kind, patient, understanding. Who would have taught me to ride a bike and helped with homework and been proud of my origami cranes.

The real Jamie was... different.

He exhibited a caring nature towards me, but his interactions with others seemed tinged with a cold, almost distant demeanour.

My father, it appeared, was not the man I had envisioned.

The thought that he might not even harbour affection for his partner, Luke, swirled in my mind, raising more questions than answers about the dynamics of their relationship.

They're supposed to be partners. Why does Jamie talk about him like he's a problem to be managed?

As Jamie seated himself on the edge of the mattress, his attention turned briefly to the leftover beans on my plate.

His apology and the deep sighs that followed suggested an inner turmoil or regret.

"I'm sorry," he said. "We shouldn't be here. We should be..."

His words trailed off, leaving a heavy air of unfinished thoughts and unsaid emotions.

Should be what? Home? Together differently? Never have met?

The sentence hung there, incomplete, like an origami crane with one wing missing. You could see what it was supposed to be, but it wasn't quite right.

Before he could continue, Paul burst into the tent, his interruption abrupt.

"Sorry, need to get some paper," he declared, cutting through the tension-filled atmosphere.

Of course. Another interruption. This tent has a revolving door.

Jamie's gaze, sharp and scrutinising, followed Paul's every move, hinting at an unspoken undercurrent of distrust or unease between them.

The atmosphere in the tent shifted again. Cooled. The temperature dropping a few degrees whenever Paul and Jamie occupied the same space.

What happened between these two?

"Oh, and I need Joel's address too," Paul added.

My address? I pondered silently, a question mark forming in my mind, echoing in the confined space of the tent.

Why would anyone need my address? What possible use could it be? We were in another dimension.

Before I could unravel the reason behind this request, Jamie voiced my internal query with a protective edge.

"What for?" he demanded.

Jamie's tone had sharpened. The father protecting the son, even from something as innocuous as a request for information. I wasn't sure if I found it touching or irritating.

Paul, undeterred by Jamie's tone, held his ground firmly.

"So Luke can bring him some fresh clothes," he stated, the flatness of his voice belying the significance of his words.

Fresh clothes.

The idea crashed through me like a wave.

Clean clothes. My clothes. From my house in Glenorchy. From my life.

I'd been wearing nothing but a blanket since Jamie had helped me out of my ruined courier uniform. The thought of proper clothes—my clothes, the ones I'd chosen, the ones that fit, the ones that smelled like home—was suddenly overwhelming.

The mention of Luke, and his intention to bring me fresh clothes, seemed to shift the dynamic in the tent slightly.

Even Jamie's hostility softened a fraction. Luke might be a fuck-up, but he was a fuck-up who could travel between worlds and fetch clean underwear.

Sensing perhaps a misjudgment of Paul's intentions, Jamie's demeanour softened.

He waved Paul closer and reached for the pen and paper he carried with him.

His attention then turned to me.

"Do you want to do the writing?" he asked, his gaze softening.

Writing.

The prospect was both exciting and terrifying. Writing required fine motor control. Required my fingers to work together, to hold a pen, to form letters I'd been making since primary school.

My spirits lifted at the opportunity to engage in something as normal as writing.

Testing the dexterity of my fingers, I found them more cooperative than I had expected.

The splinted finger still ached, but the others moved when I told them to. Bent and straightened without too much complaint.

"Yeah," I croaked, my voice still rough but determined.

Jamie's assistance was gentle as he placed the pen in my shaky hand and steadied the paper.

The pen felt strange. Too light, somehow. Like holding a feather when I'd expected a brick.

But my fingers closed around it. Muscle memory kicked in—years of writing notes, filling out delivery forms, sketching origami fold patterns in the margins of notebooks.

14 Bowden Street, Glenorchy.

The act of writing my address, despite being a bit wobbly, was surprisingly pain-free, another small victory.

The letters came out shaky. A child's handwriting, almost. But legible. Readable. An address that would mean something to someone on Earth, that would lead Luke to my door, to my wardrobe, to my life.

"Thanks," Paul said, taking the paper with a nod. "Should have it by the end of the day."

By the end of the day.

Less than twenty-four hours until I'd have my own clothes again. Until I'd have something that was mine in this alien place.

"Thanks," I echoed, my gratitude evident in my gaze.

Paul's assistance, however small, felt like a bridge to the outside world, a connection to a life that seemed increasingly distant.

Mum will wonder why someone's going through my wardrobe. Unless... does she even know I'm missing?

The thought hit me like a slap.

Mum. She'd be frantic by now. I hadn't come home from work. Hadn't called. Hadn't checked in like I always did. She'd be calling hospitals, calling police, calling Garry at the depot to ask if I'd shown up.

And no one would have any answers for her.

"No worries," Paul said, and he promptly left the tent.

With Paul's departure, a sense of accomplishment washed over me.

Despite the challenges of the morning, I had managed to eat and write, small but significant steps in my recovery.

Eating. Writing. Sitting up.

The list of things I could do was growing. Slowly, painfully, but growing.

Lying back down, I allowed my eyes to close gently, giving in to the weariness that enveloped me.

The simple tasks had taken more out of me than I cared to admit, but they were also a reminder of the progress I was making, however slow it might be.

One bean at a time, I thought again. One bite at a time.

The medication Glenda had given me was working. The pain had receded to a dull background hum, manageable rather than overwhelming. My stomach was full for the first time in days. I'd written my address—proof that my hands still worked, that my brain still remembered how to form letters.

Small victories.

Tomorrow I'll try standing. Maybe walking. Maybe making it to the tent flap to see what's outside.

The voices continued their murmur beyond the canvas walls. New people with new stories, new complications for a camp already tangled with tensions I didn't understand.

But that could wait.

For now, I let sleep claim me, drifting off to the distant sounds of conversation and the comforting weight of a full stomach.