Open Doors

“You don’t have to step through a Portal for danger to follow—it only takes leaving one door open too long.”

Paul and I sat shoulder to shoulder on the mattress, the silence between us thick, as if words themselves feared to intrude. The awkward residue of my earlier encounter with Jamie clung stubbornly, refusing to dissipate—an unpleasant aftertaste that lingered like spoiled medicine on the back of my tongue.

My anger, once a boiling pot threatening to spill over, now simmered low. Muted but not extinguished. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Jamie's dismissive shove, felt the sharp sting of his rough, uncaring gesture. That single movement replayed on a loop in my mind—its coldness igniting brief sparks of resentment I struggled, futilely, to douse.

In ten years together, through arguments that rattled windows and silences that stretched for days, that line had held. We didn't touch each other in anger. That boundary had been sacred between us, an unspoken covenant that whatever damage we inflicted with words, we would not inflict with our bodies.

And now that covenant lay shattered alongside everything else.

He had left soon after, trudging away towards the river, his back to us, shoulders heavy, his figure shrinking against the horizon until he was little more than a smudge against the heat's shimmer. There, he would cleanse his wound—a gash as raw and stubborn as the rift that seemed to widen between us with each passing hour. His absence now hung over me as tangibly as his abrasive presence once had, a ghost that refused to grant me peace.

Duke was embarking on his fourth inspection of the tent's perimeter. His nose hovered close to the ground, tail beating the air with unrelenting enthusiasm, oblivious to the heavy air that pressed down upon the rest of us. Watching him, I felt my lips curve into a smile, fragile but real, breaking through the storm that had settled in my chest. How I longed for simpler times—days when the weight of existence amounted to nothing more than choosing which game to play, not navigating betrayal, survival, and the fracturing of relationships I once thought unbreakable.

Henri, in contrast, exuded the serenity of a creature wholly at ease with himself. The chubbier, more placid of our two companions, he had claimed his place without ceremony, curling into the bottom corner of the mattress as though it had always been meant for him. His breathing came in steady waves, his body rising and falling in a rhythm that was oddly soothing. I reached out and let my fingers sink into the softness of his fur, the gentle rise of warmth beneath my palm working like balm against my frayed nerves. For a fleeting moment, I allowed myself to breathe, to feel.

Yet the calm didn't last. From the comfort of that simple act rose something far more difficult to bear: guilt. It surged through me suddenly, unexpected and fierce, rushing like a current too strong to resist. My heart, already unsteady, quickened as the truth clawed its way into focus. I was going to miss them—these quiet, steadfast companions who asked for nothing, who judged nothing—more than I dared admit. The thought left me raw, hollowed out, as if admitting it was itself a kind of loss.

Paul's movement drew my attention. He shifted, turning to face me fully, his frame tense, his expression carved with deep furrows of concern. The playfulness that so often coloured his features was gone, replaced with a seriousness that made my stomach clench. His eyes searched mine, steady and unflinching, and in their silence I felt the weight of something more than words—a reckoning, long overdue, pressing in between us.

A voice, sharp and merciless, echoed in the back of my mind: If Paul turns against me—if he sides with Jamie, or worse, if he walks away—then everything crumbles. The fragile scaffolding I had built, the desperate architecture of plans, hopes, and half-truths, would collapse like a cliff edge giving way under a storm's fury.

The sense of potential loss loomed over me, vast and suffocating. My throat felt dry, my skin prickling as though anticipating a blow. Without thinking, I crossed my fingers behind my back—a childish, superstitious reflex I hadn't indulged in since I was a boy. It was ridiculous, and yet the gesture felt like the only shield I had against the crushing possibility of Paul's rejection.

Every muscle in my body tensed, bracing for the verdict. The air between us was taut. His words, his choice—whatever came next—felt as if they carried not just his judgement but the future of our fragile venture, balanced precariously on the edge of his decision.

"He needs a doctor, Luke." Paul's voice cut through the silence, its tone colder, sterner, than I had heard in a long while.

"I know. I'll take care of it," I said quickly, my words tumbling out with a conviction I didn't fully feel. The pretence of control was all I had to offer, even as doubt gnawed at me from within.

"How?" Paul's reply was sharp, his tone slicing through my hollow assurance. His eyes narrowed, pinning me in place, refusing to let me wriggle free with vagueness. "Are you sure bringing another person here is the best idea?"

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Paul—my brother, my closest ally in all this madness—was he actually siding with Jamie? The thought struck me like a slap, igniting a spark of anger that burned hot in my chest. Images of Jamie's festering wound, that grotesque gash oozing blood and pus, flashed across my mind. It wasn't just a wound anymore; it was a symbol, a ticking bomb lodged in our midst, a reminder of how fragile our existence here truly was.

"So, you agree with Jamie, do you? You think being here is a death sentence?" The words tore out of me, sharp and jagged.

"Luke, that's not what I said," Paul interjected quickly, his tone steady but edged with urgency, as if trying to prevent me from spiralling further. His eyes finally met mine, locking onto me with a clarity that caught me off guard. It wasn't defiance I saw there, nor blind agreement with Jamie—it was something else. Something quieter. Something more difficult. His gaze seemed to plead with me to listen, to see beyond my fear and fury.

"But?" I pressed, my voice low and taut.

Paul's eyes closed briefly, a pause that carried the weight of worlds. His chest rose and fell with a measured breath, the kind you take before walking into fire. Whether he was gathering his thoughts or simply steeling himself for the fallout, I couldn't tell. The silence stretched unbearably, each passing second winding the knot in my stomach tighter.

When he spoke again, his voice was softer, stripped of its earlier sharpness. It carried with it a weariness, an exhaustion carved deep into him by the trials we'd endured and the ones still looming on the horizon.

"Luke," he began, the word a gentle start, yet weighted with the promise of a hard truth.

"Yeah?" I prompted, my throat tight, my heart hammering so loudly I feared it might drown out his answer. Anticipation and dread warred within me, two forces pulling me apart, as I clung desperately to the hope that Paul's next words wouldn't break me.

"We need someone with decent handyman skills. Jamie and I suck. We can't even lay a concrete slab for the shed."

My eyebrows lifted instinctively, a reflex to the curveball Paul had just thrown me. Of all the outcomes I'd braced for—the accusation, the rejection, the possibility of losing him to Jamie's side—this wasn't one I'd anticipated. Yet, as the words settled, I felt a wave of unexpected relief wash over me. Paul wasn't abandoning me, not now, not yet. He was still here, still tethered to the vision, however tentatively. In the precarious balance of our circumstances, that small reassurance meant everything.

"I shouldn't be surprised," I managed to say, forcing out a chuckle that was more a release of pent-up tension than genuine amusement. The irony wasn't lost on me: the great experiment of Clivilius, threatened not by alien landscapes or strange diseases, but by something as mundane as our collective incompetence with concrete.

Paul's eyes locked onto mine, steady and unflinching. He leaned in ever so slightly, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. "But don't tell Jamie I told you that. We're struggling enough as it is. The last thing I need is for him to think that I agree with you in bringing more people here."

There it was again—that delicate thread we all walked, the fragile alliances, the careful dance of words and silences. It wasn't just about survival in the dust and heat of Clivilius; it was about surviving each other.

"Of course. I understand," I replied evenly, though inside my mind spun with thoughts and strategies, recalibrating in light of his revelation.

"Thanks," Paul added simply, giving me the barest of nods. It wasn't much, but it was enough.

Just then, a jolt of realisation struck me, sharp and electric, as though someone had driven a current down my spine. My back stiffened, the muscles knotting in reflexive tension, my chest tightening under the sudden surge of dread.

The Portal. I had left it open. In my haste to chase Henri, in the chaos of the confrontation with Jamie, I had crossed back through without closing it behind me. The gateway stood gaping in my driveway in Berriedale, shimmering and impossible, visible to anyone who happened to glance in the wrong direction.

And Joel had been right there. Joel, with his wide eyes and his stammered questions about what the hell that thing was. Joel, who I had abandoned mid-sentence to chase a dog through a hole in reality.

"Shit," I blurted, the expletive torn from me before I could catch it, raw and unfiltered. In one sudden, almost violent movement, I was on my feet, propelled upward by a force I couldn't quite contain—the urgency of the moment demanding action.

"What?" Paul's voice was quick, clipped, alert—the word more an instinct than a question. His eyes sharpened instantly, scanning me for danger, for answers, for anything that might explain the jarring break in my composure.

"Oh, it's nothing," I said too quickly, the words tumbling out in a tone meant to be casual but betraying their own artifice. My attempt at nonchalance was paper-thin, and I knew it. Still, I clung to it, forcing a shrug, my voice level, hoping it might smother the spark of concern I'd already ignited in his gaze.

It was instinct, pure and unthinking, to protect him. To protect both of them. They already carried enough—the strangeness of this world, the fragility of survival, the looming shadow of Jamie's festering wound. To add another burden, another worry from the other side of the Portal, would be reckless. The less they knew, the quicker they might anchor themselves here, adjust to the dust, the uncertainty, the endless horizon. At least, that's what I told myself.

And yet, even as I stood there, arms folding tight across my chest like a brittle shield, the image of Joel gnawed at me. Joel, the delivery driver, left alone in my world, standing far too close to truths he was never meant to glimpse. Joel, curious and unprepared, with wide eyes and an innocence that felt almost cruel in contrast to what he had seen. Joel, potentially in danger, simply because of me.

What if he'd followed? What if curiosity had overcome caution, and he'd stepped through after me? He could be wandering Clivilius right now, lost and terrified, while I sat here discussing concrete slabs with my brother.

The thought clung to me like a burr, refusing to be shaken free. No matter how desperately I tried to weave the threads of all these responsibilities together—Clivilius, Jamie, Paul, the dogs, the finances, the fragile façade of secrecy—one strand always threatened to unravel, tugging the whole fabric apart.

"I'd better get going," I murmured, my voice barely more than a whisper, the words catching in my throat as though reluctant to leave me. I crouched down, reaching to give Duke a gentle scratch behind his ears. His tail wiggled in eager reply, the simple rhythm a soothing balm against the storm that churned inside me. His uncomplicated joy—so freely given, so unconditional—was a reminder of the uncomplicated bonds I craved amidst the complexities tightening their grip on me.

"Now be good, both of you," I said, my tone softening as my eyes flicked to Henri. He was sprawled across the mattress like a plump, furry king, his chest rising and falling with the ease of deep sleep. The gentle cadence of his snoring carried a peace I hadn't felt in days.

Behind me, Paul's chuckle slipped into the moment, low and brief, but so out of place it made me turn my head. In this world of dust and strain, laughter felt almost like contraband—precious, forbidden, fleeting. It brought an involuntary smile to my face, small but sincere, a flicker of the bond we shared still holding fast despite everything that threatened to fracture it.

"Take care of them for me, won't you?" I asked, standing again and meeting Paul's eyes. My voice carried a quiet plea, a yearning that reached beyond the surface of the words. I searched him, desperate to see the brother I remembered, the anchor I needed, hidden somewhere beneath the shadows that had settled over us.

Paul's nod came without hesitation. Silent, but heavy with unspoken promises.

My brow furrowed as the guilt pressed forward again. "I never meant for them to enter like this." The admission hung in the air, part confession, part apology, as though speaking it might ease the ache of responsibility clawing at me.

"I know," Paul replied simply, his hand rising to give my shoulder a firm squeeze.

Leaving Henri to his dreams, I stepped away, the fabric of the moment unravelling behind me. Paul and Duke fell into step beside me, their silence more comforting than any words could be. Together, we made our way back across the sand toward the Portal, its presence looming like an unfinished sentence at the edge of the dunes.

My mind raced ahead, feverishly constructing scenarios, only to tear them down again. How would I face Joel? What story could possibly explain away what he had seen, what he had almost touched? And worse—what if he was no longer there? The thought of his absence, of the silence that might greet me on the other side, twisted my gut into knots, a cold dread coiling tighter with each passing second.

Or what if he had crossed through? What if the shimmer had called to him the way it had once called to me, and he'd stepped into Clivilius without understanding what that meant? He could be anywhere by now. Lost, frightened, alone in a world that offered no landmarks, no explanations, no way home.

I understood, with aching clarity, that the next few minutes could change everything. The choices waiting on the other side—what I said, what I concealed, what I admitted—could redraw the fragile map of our lives forever.

And still, I walked on, because there was no turning back.

The crest of the dune gave way beneath our feet, and there it was—the Portal. Its familiar, hypnotic shimmer against the pale, sun-bleached expanse of the Clivilian desert. Always beautiful, always terrible.

With a hasty, almost clumsy wave, I threw a goodbye over my shoulder to Paul and started forward at pace, legs pounding across the sand. Urgency devoured grace. My body moved faster than thought, driven by the singular focus of Joel.

"Luke, wait!" Paul's voice halted me mid-stride. The sound pulled me around, my face tightening into a grimace I hoped would speak volumes without needing words: not now.

But Paul, in his earnest, practical way, ignored the storm brewing inside me. "Can you print us instructions for laying a concrete slab for a shed?"

The sheer mundanity of the request, dropped into a moment fraught with panic, nearly floored me. For a heartbeat, the absurdity tugged the corners of my mouth upward. I actually laughed, a strangled chuckle that eased the iron band around my chest, if only slightly.

"Sure thing," I replied, the words tumbling out reflexively, my humour half genuine, half incredulous at the timing.

I didn't wait for more. With a sharper wave, deliberate this time, I turned and flung myself into the Portal. Its colours rose around me, swallowing me whole, their swirling spectrum pulsing in rhythm with my racing heart. The desert dissolved into kaleidoscopic chaos, and as I surrendered to its embrace, only one thought clung to me: What in God's name am I about to find on the other side?