Same Shirt, Different Day

"You can wash off the dust, but without a change of clothes, you're just getting clean to get dirty again. Story of survival, really."

The walk to the river gave me time to think.

Not that thinking was doing me much good. Every thought led back to the same place — the lagoon, the glow, the way my body had responded to the water without my permission. The memory sat in my chest like a splinter, small but impossible to ignore.

Yesterday's events clung to my mind, refusing to let go. Uncle Jamie's face when he'd talked about the healing properties of the water. The casual way he'd mentioned what the glow actually was. Joel's grey skin and empty eyes, then the gasp of returning breath, the sudden awareness that snapped back into his gaze.

None of it made sense. None of it fit into any framework I had for understanding how the world worked. And the not-knowing was almost worse than the fear itself — this constant feeling of being off-balance, of waiting for the next impossible thing to happen.

The river came into view, that same crystal-clear blue cutting through the brown and red landscape. The sound of rushing water reached my ears first, a constant murmur that drowned out the thoughts cycling through my head. The surface caught the early morning light, glinting and sparkling like someone had scattered broken glass across it.

I stopped at the bank and stared.

The temptation was there — to strip down completely, to wade in and let the current wash away the grime and sweat that had accumulated on my skin. To feel clean, properly clean, for the first time since I'd landed in this place.

But the memory held me back.

The lagoon had done... things. To my body, to my mind, to my sense of control over my own reactions. Uncle Jamie had said the river had similar effects, though milder. "Very minor," he'd called it.

Very minor wasn't the same as none.

I settled for removing my shirt, the fabric peeling away from my skin like old wallpaper. The morning air hit my bare chest, raising goosebumps across my flesh. Cool but not cold — nothing like the Tasmanian mornings I was used to, where winter bit with proper teeth.

Kneeling at the water's edge, I braced myself for the shock. Then I plunged my hands in.

Cold. Properly cold, the kind that made your bones ache and your fingers go numb. The sensation was almost welcome after the dusty warmth of the camp, a sharp clarity that cut through the fog in my head. I cupped the water in my palms and brought it to my face, gasping as it hit my skin, rivulets running down my neck and chest.

My fingers worked at the dirt, scrubbing away the layers of dust and dried sweat that had built up over the past day. The water turned murky around my hands, brown clouds dispersing into the current, carried away downstream. I splashed more onto my arms, my shoulders, the back of my neck. Each application was a small relief, a tiny victory against the relentless grime of this place.

I lost myself in the repetition of it. Scoop, splash, scrub. Scoop, splash, scrub. The rhythm became almost meditative, my thoughts finally quieting as I focused on the simple physical task. The river rushed past, indifferent to my presence, its song filling my ears and pushing everything else to the edges.

Time slipped away. Minutes, maybe longer. When I finally pulled myself to my feet, my muscles protested the movement, stiff from kneeling on the damp earth. Water dripped from my hair, trickling down my bare skin, leaving behind a coolness that seeped into my tired bones.

I gathered my shirt — the fabric felt heavier now, weighted with all the sweat and dust it had absorbed — and started the trudge back to camp. My bare feet sank into the soft ground with each step, the dust working its way between my toes almost immediately. What I wouldn't give for a proper towel, soft and fluffy and warm from the dryer. The kind Brianne always insisted on, the expensive ones that felt like wrapping yourself in a cloud.

Brianne.

I pushed the thought away before it could take root. Not now. I couldn't afford to go down that path right now, not when I needed to keep my head together, keep putting one foot in front of the other.

The smell hit me before I reached the camp.

Burning. Not the pleasant woodsmoke scent of a campfire, but something acrid and wrong. The unmistakable odour of food being murdered by heat.

Glenda's voice carried across the morning air, a string of expletives colourful enough to make a tradie blush. I rounded the last dune to find her crouched by the fire, frying pan in hand, her face a mask of pure frustration.

I glanced over her shoulder at the contents of the pan and winced. The bacon — or what had once been bacon — was barely recognisable. Black and shrivelled, more charcoal than meat, the strips sat in a pool of smoking fat like casualties of a culinary war.

"Everything alright, Glenda?"

"How the hell am I supposed to control the heat on this thing?" she vented, not even looking up. With a huff of disgust, she tossed the ruined strips into the coals, where they disappeared with a sizzle and a puff of smoke. "Bacon should be fuck-easy to cook!"

I bit back the smile that threatened to escape. Laughing at her right now would be a death sentence.

"Would you like me to take over?" I offered, squatting beside her and reaching for the pan.

"No!" She yanked it out of my reach, her grip tightening on the handle like she was afraid I might wrestle it away from her. A few deep breaths, her chest rising and falling as she fought to calm herself. "I need to be able to get this right."

Fair enough. I could respect that — the need to master something, to prove you weren't completely useless in a situation where everything felt out of control.

"Well, perhaps the easiest way to control the heat is to move to a cooler or hotter part of the fire," I suggested, pointing toward a section where the flames had died down to gentle embers. "It should give you better control over the cooking process."

Glenda followed my gesture, her eyes narrowing as she considered the option. "Thanks," she said, shuffling around the fire's edge to the spot I'd indicated.

"And normally, it's better to cook on a grill plate to keep the pan level, but unfortunately, we don't have one," I added.

The words hung in the air, carrying an unspoken criticism that I hadn't quite intended. Luke had brought tents and sleeping bags and building supplies, but apparently proper cooking equipment hadn't made the list. Typical.

Glenda stared into the flames, her face scrunched in concentration. "Can I rest the pan on the coals?"

"I wouldn't. Not with bacon and eggs, anyway. They'd end up like charcoal very quickly." I suppressed a shudder at the thought. "You'll just have to try and keep your arm as steady as you can, and remember to raise or lower the pan from the heat if it gets too hot."

"Of course," she replied, nodding, some of the tension easing from her shoulders.

I watched her place fresh rashers into the pan, the immediate sizzle of fat hitting hot metal filling the air. The smell shifted from burnt disaster to something approaching appetising, and my stomach growled in response, a reminder that I hadn't eaten since yesterday.

"I'll talk to Paul and see if he can convince Luke to bring us some more camping equipment," I said, surprising myself with the words.

Where had that come from? I was supposed to be finding a way out of this place, not settling in, not making suggestions for long-term improvements. But the thought had escaped before I could catch it, and now it sat between us like an offer I couldn't take back.

"Thank you," Glenda acknowledged, her attention fixed on the bacon, adjusting the pan's height with careful movements.

The aroma filled the air now, proper cooking smells that made my mouth water. Please don't screw this up, I thought, watching the rashers darken from pink to golden. My taste buds were already preparing themselves for disappointment, but hope died hard.

I was about to head toward the tent when Glenda's voice stopped me.

"Oh, Kain?"

I turned back, eyebrow raised.

"Paul went to the Drop Zone. Can you please find him and let him know that breakfast is mandatory for everyone this morning?"

"Sure," I replied, nodding.

Mandatory breakfast. Glenda was taking charge, establishing routines, trying to impose some structure on the chaos we'd found ourselves in. It made sense, I supposed. Routines were anchors. They gave you something to hold onto when everything else was spinning out of control.

Without another word, I ducked into the tent to grab a fresh shirt — then stopped, the reality of my situation hitting me like a slap.

I didn't have fresh clothes.

I didn't have anything except what I'd been wearing when Luke pushed me through that portal. The same jeans, the same shirt, the same everything. No change of underwear, no spare socks, nothing.

Right.

I emerged from the tent wearing the same dusty clothes I'd gone in with, the brief fantasy of cleanliness already fading. The river had helped, but without fresh gear to change into, I was just going to get dirty again within the hour.

One more thing to add to the list of indignities this place had heaped upon me.