Seven Days to Cure

"Sometimes the best news you can get is that your failure wasn't quite as catastrophic as you thought—that's what passes for victory out here."

Taking our time, Kain and I meandered towards the Drop Zone, our designated area that had quickly become a vital lifeline for our survival in this new world. The walk gave me time to observe him more closely—the way he moved with an economy of motion that spoke of physical labour, the way his eyes scanned the landscape with what seemed like professional assessment rather than the bewildered gaping I had been guilty of on my first day. There was something different about Kain. Something capable.

As we walked, I found myself explaining the significance of this spot to Kain, whose understanding of our situation was still in its infancy. "This is where Luke delivers most of the things he brings to the new world," I told him, my voice tinged with a mix of awe and resignation.

It was up to us, I emphasised, to regularly monitor the site for drop-offs. Luke, in his mysterious ways, had already on more than one occasion dropped items there without any prior announcement or explanation. Things simply appeared—boxes, supplies, materials—as if deposited by some invisible hand. No schedule, no warning, no consideration for whether we were prepared to receive them. Just Luke doing whatever Luke did, appearing and disappearing according to rules only he understood.

As we arrived, I gestured towards the boxes that lay scattered around the area. Among them were the unassembled pieces of what would become our additional tents, alongside materials meant for the construction of sheds that would offer us some semblance of storage. The sight of these supplies, still untouched and packed as they were delivered, served as an uncomfortable reminder of the sheer magnitude of work ahead of us. We had materials. What we lacked was the knowledge and manpower to transform them into anything useful. In my old life, I would have hired contractors, delegated responsibilities, managed the project from a comfortable office. Here, I was the contractor. And I was spectacularly unqualified.

Kain's gaze followed mine, taking in the assortment of boxes and materials. I could see him mentally cataloguing each item, the wheels in his head turning as he began to grasp the scope of our day-to-day reality. There was something different about the way he looked at the supplies—not the bewilderment I'd felt when I first saw them, but something more like recognition. Assessment. The look of someone who knew what these materials could become, who could see the finished structures hidden inside the flat-packed components.

The responsibility of keeping an eye on the Drop Zone, of ensuring we didn't miss any crucial supplies, suddenly felt less burdensome with Kain by my side. His presence, initially an unintended consequence of Luke's actions, was quickly becoming an asset I hadn't realised we so desperately needed. Another pair of hands. Another mind. Another person who might actually know what they were doing.

The quiet solidarity between us as we surveyed the area spoke volumes. Here we were, two individuals thrown together by fate, now bound by a shared purpose. The task ahead—to build, to maintain, to survive—seemed daunting, yet somehow more achievable with Kain's silent promise of assistance. I wasn't alone anymore. Not entirely.

"And you haven't started constructing any of the sheds yet?"

Kain's question, simple as it was, felt like a spotlight on our inadequacies, our struggles to adapt to this new world and its demands. The question carried no judgement, but I felt defensive anyway—the successful businessman who couldn't even pour concrete properly. The manager who had managed nothing but failure since arriving in Clivilius.

I grimaced, the memory of our attempt souring my expression. "Well... I'm pretty sure we screwed up the first slab of concrete we tried to lay."

Kain chuckled at my confession, a sound that surprisingly didn't grate on my nerves but instead offered a moment of comfort.

"You better show me then," he said, his response not mocking but genuinely offering assistance.

There was something in his tone that suggested he might actually know what he was talking about. Not the theoretical knowledge of someone who had read about construction, but the practical experience of someone who had done it. Mixed concrete. Poured slabs. Built structures that stood.

Trudging through the brown and red Clivilius dust, the landscape around us a constant reminder of how far from home we truly were, we stopped at the site of our failed attempt. The mess that was supposed to be the base for the first shed lay before us, a debacle of our inexperience. Looking at it now, through the eyes of someone who might actually understand construction, I felt my cheeks warm with embarrassment. The surface was uneven, lumpy in places, with what appeared to be cracks already forming in sections that had dried too quickly. It looked like something a child might have made. It looked like failure.

"Yeah. That's pretty much fucked," Kain observed matter-of-factly upon seeing the disaster we'd made.

His bluntness, rather than offending, somehow put me at ease. It was refreshing, in a way, to deal with our situation with a bit of honesty, even if it was dark. No point pretending our failure was anything other than what it was. No point dressing up a disaster in corporate language about growth opportunities and iterative learning.

And then he added, "I helped my father put our garage together, so these should be pretty straightforward."

"Straightforward," I laughed, the absurdity of everything momentarily lifting as I entertained the thought of something in this place being simple. Nothing had been straightforward since I'd stumbled through that Portal. Not finding food, not building shelter, not understanding what was happening to Joel, not keeping my arm from turning grey. Nothing.

"And just how big was this garage?"

"Oh, it was ten metres by ten metres."

Impressive, indeed. My eyebrows shot up in acknowledgment of his experience. Perhaps, with Kain's know-how, we stood a chance at not just surviving but establishing something resembling a functional camp. Perhaps we might actually build something worth living in.

Kain then moved on to the second slab, crouching down with a focus that was both intense and reassuring. His brow furrowed in concentration as he examined our work, the silent assessment hanging in the air between us. He ran his hand across the surface, pressed his fingers into the edges, tested the corners. A professional evaluation where I had only been able to see failure or success. He was reading the concrete like I might read a balance sheet—seeing details, implications, possibilities that were invisible to my untrained eye.

"We followed instructions for that one," I called out, a defensive note in my voice I hadn't intended. As if following instructions should have guaranteed success. As if reading words on a page could substitute for years of practical experience.

"It shows," Kain responded after a moment, rising to his feet. "It's a little rough, but I think this one will actually be okay for what we need."

"Really? That's the best news I've heard today."

Something we'd done had actually worked. Something we'd built might actually serve its purpose. The relief that washed through me was disproportionate to the accomplishment—it was just a slab of concrete, after all—but in a world where everything seemed designed to defeat us, any victory felt monumental.

"It looks like we already have so much work to do. The less rework the better," Kain noted, his gaze sweeping over our makeshift camp with a pragmatism that was both necessary and welcome.

I smiled to myself, feeling a surge of appreciation for Kain. I liked him—a lot. He was both smart and pragmatic, qualities that were invaluable in our current situation. The thought crossed my mind that if Luke could bring us someone with just a little more experience, I could really see our settlement not just surviving but thriving. The ethical complications of that thought—kidnapping more people to build our colony—I pushed aside for now. We could debate morality later, when we had walls and roofs and something resembling safety.

"Well, let's get to it," Kain announced, his voice pulling me from my thoughts as he started another trek back to the Drop Zone.

I quickened my pace to catch up. "So, what do we do first? Dig up that first slab of concrete?"

Kain turned to me, his expression a mix of bewilderment and amusement. "Shit, no. There's no point touching that for now. We'll get the slabs done for a few more sheds first. We have to let them cure for seven days."

"Cure for seven days," I echoed, the concept foreign and intriguing. "What the hell does that mean?"

He smiled softly, a gesture that carried both patience and a hint of camaraderie. The smile of a teacher who has encountered this particular ignorance before and doesn't hold it against the student.

"It means that once we've poured the concrete, we have to leave the slabs for seven days before we can build the sheds on them."

"Shit," I muttered, a mix of surprise and embarrassment colouring my tone. "I've never heard of that before."

"I'm not surprised," Kain replied with a slight chuckle.

I swallowed any offence I might have felt. It was clear Kain didn't mean to belittle my ignorance. And besides, he was right—I really had no idea when it came to construction. Standing there, on the brink of a learning curve as steep as the one before us, I realised that even the simplest of tasks in this new world was going to be far from simple. But at least now I had a teacher. At least now I had someone who could show me what I didn't know.

Working under the close direction of Kain, we made surprisingly quick work of setting the next slab of concrete. His guidance felt like a beacon in the murky waters of my inexperience. Each step he outlined was clear and imbued with a sense of purpose that was infectious. As we mixed, poured, and levelled the concrete, I found myself marvelling at the process—a blend of science and practical skill that had previously been foreign to me. The ratio of water to powder. The consistency you were aiming for. The technique for spreading it evenly. All these things that Kain knew instinctively, that I was learning for the first time at thirty-five years old.

Kain's confidence was a constructive contrast to the apprehension that had initially clouded my thoughts. With each instruction he gave, I felt my own confidence grow. It was as if his knowledge was a torch, illuminating the path forward, dispelling the shadows of doubt that lingered in my mind. The rhythm of our work became a dance of sorts, of hope and determination that pushed back against the uncertainty of our situation. Pour. Spread. Level. Smooth. Repeat.

As the concrete spread across the mould, smoothing out under our tools, I couldn't help but reflect on the significance of what we were doing. It wasn't just a slab of concrete; it was the foundation of something greater—a sign of our resilience, our refusal to succumb to despair. The act of building, of creating something tangible in this new and unpredictable world, felt like a declaration of our intent to survive, to thrive even, against all odds. Every stroke of the trowel was an argument against hopelessness. Every smooth section of concrete was a small victory.

Feeling somewhat more comfortable with the process of laying concrete, and perhaps because of that growing ease, the two of us began to drift into a little non-work-related conversation. It was a welcome diversion, a brief respite from the constant focus on survival and the tasks at hand. The physical labour had created a strange intimacy—two men working side by side, learning to trust each other through shared effort. There was something honest about manual work that office politics never achieved.

"So, you've been separated from your family too?"

Kain's question cut through the air, simple yet loaded with the weight of our shared circumstances. His hands kept moving as he spoke, smoothing the concrete, but I could hear the careful casualness in his voice—the way people ask about painful topics when they're not sure they should be asking at all.

"Yeah," I responded, the mention of my family stirring a tumult of emotions within me.

The concrete suddenly seemed less important, the work less urgent. The faces of my children swam up from wherever I'd been keeping them suppressed. Mack's serious eyes, always asking questions I didn't know how to answer. Rose's fierce little chin, jutting out when she didn't get her way. My children, growing up without me, wondering why Daddy hadn't come home.

"I have two kids. Mack is ten and Rose is six."

Just saying their names out loud felt like a bittersweet reminder of what I was fighting for. Mack with his serious questions and his desire to understand everything—he would want to know how the Portal worked, why the sky was different, what made the concrete cure. Rose with her fierce opinions and her refusal to be ignored—she would demand the biggest room in whatever we built, would insist on naming every feature of the landscape. My children, who had no idea where their father was or if he was ever coming back.

"Oh," Kain replied softly, his reaction a mixture of empathy and sorrow. His hands paused briefly on the concrete before resuming their work.

"I miss them terribly," I found myself admitting, more to myself than to Kain.

It was a truth that needed no elaboration, a sentiment that anyone in our position could understand without further explanation. The missing was constant, a dull ache that flared into sharp pain whenever I allowed myself to think about them directly. I had become expert at not thinking about them—at focusing on tasks, on problems, on anything other than two small faces wondering where Daddy had gone.

Kain's attention seemed to fixate on the concrete, a deliberate focus that suggested he was grappling with his own thoughts, his own losses. I watched him closely, sensing that there was more he wanted to say. His fiancée. His unborn child. His whole life, torn away without warning or explanation.

Should I ask? Or should I just leave Kain to his own thoughts?

The dilemma hovered in my mind, a decision between pushing for more or respecting his silence. Sometimes people needed space to process. Sometimes they needed prompting. I didn't know Kain well enough yet to know which he needed.

Before I could resolve my internal debate, Kain voiced his own question, preempting mine.

"Have you considered bringing them here?"

The inquiry, loaded with implications, momentarily caught me off guard. Bringing them here. Bringing Claire and Mack and Rose to this alien world with its dangers and its uncertainties. The thought had crossed my mind—of course it had—but hearing it spoken aloud gave it weight and substance. Made it real in a way that private contemplation never quite achieved.

"I have," I replied, hesitating as I considered how much to share.

"And?" Kain prompted, his interest clear, urging me to continue.

The risk of revealing my plans weighed heavily on me, the potential for backlash a tangible concern. Jamie wouldn't approve—he barely approved of anything I did. Luke might have opinions—though Luke's opinions remained as mysterious as everything else about him. But surely the risk was worth it—the need to connect, to share our hopes and fears, momentarily outweighing the caution.

"I've already made up my mind that I want to bring them here. That's why I'm so determined to get this small settlement functioning as soon as possible," I said, pausing to gather my thoughts before adding, "I don't want them to forget me."

The words left my lips with a heaviness that felt like a physical burden. That was the real fear, wasn't it? Not just being separated from them, but being forgotten. Becoming a memory that faded, a father-shaped absence that gradually filled in with other things. Rose was only six—how long before she stopped asking about me? How long before Mack stopped expecting me to come home? Children were resilient. Children adapted. Children forgot.

Kain's reaction was immediate, his face tightening as his bottom lip quivered. He understood. Of course he understood. He had a child coming into the world who might never know his face, might never hear his voice, might grow up with nothing but photographs and stories about a father who vanished one day and never came back.

"How long have you been trapped here for?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"This is our third day," I replied, the brevity of our ordeal somehow magnifying the absurdity of our situation. Three days. It felt like weeks. It felt like a lifetime. Three days of terror and confusion and impossible events, and already I was planning to uproot my family and bring them to this place.

"Really? Is that all?"

Kain's surprise was palpable. For him, it had been even less—hours rather than days. And yet the weight of it already pressed down on both of us like something far heavier. Time moved strangely here. Or perhaps it was just that trauma stretched moments into eternities.

"Paul! Kain!"

Glenda's voice pierced the relative calm of our small construction site, pulling me out of the reverie of thoughts and plans swirling in my mind. The urgency in her tone was unmistakable—something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

My head snapped toward the sound, eyes focusing on the tent where Glenda and Jamie were struggling with a task that seemed both urgent and precarious. They were attempting to carry Joel, a sight that immediately set off alarms in my mind. Joel—the man whose throat had been cut, whose hand had grabbed me, who somehow still breathed despite everything. Why were they moving him? Where were they taking him?

Watching Jamie stumble, my heart lurched as Joel's body crashed to the ground in an unsettling echo of helplessness. The sound of impact—dull, heavy, wrong—reached us across the distance. Glenda, caught off guard by the sudden shift in weight, wobbled precariously before her knees gave way, sending her crashing into the dust alongside Joel. The sight was almost comical in its clumsiness, but nothing about it felt funny. This was disaster. This was everything going wrong at once.

The urgency in Glenda's call had now transformed into a visible crisis, propelling Kain and me into immediate action. We rushed over, our movements fuelled by a mix of concern and adrenaline. The concrete we'd been smoothing was forgotten, the work abandoned mid-task. Let it cure however it would cure—right now, there were more pressing concerns.

As we reached them, Glenda was already brushing off her knees, attempting to regain her composure. Her face was flushed, dust coating her clothes, but her expression was determined rather than defeated.

"I'll take him," I found myself saying, stepping forward to lift Joel's shoulder before Glenda could object.

It was a reflexive offer, born out of a desire to alleviate her burden, to somehow make right the unsettling scene before us. Even as I moved, part of me recoiled—this was the man who had grabbed me, whose cold fingers had dug into my flesh, whose touch had turned my skin grey. But we couldn't leave him lying in the dust. We couldn't leave anyone lying in the dust.

Glenda's nod, heavy with silent appreciation, was a brief exchange of mutual understanding.

"Where are we taking him?"

Kain's voice, steady yet tinged with confusion, broke through the momentary silence as he lifted Joel's other shoulder, ready to assist without hesitation. A good question. Where did you take a man with a sewn-together throat? What treatment existed for someone who had died and somehow not died?

"To the lagoon," Glenda instructed, her voice carrying a weight of authority.

The lagoon?

The question echoed loudly in my mind, a silent scream of confusion and concern.

Why are we taking him back to where we found him?

The rationale behind Glenda's instructions was lost on me, shrouded in a mist of uncertainty that no one seemed inclined to dispel. Back to the water that had strange effects on the body. Back to the place where he'd been floating with his throat cut. Back to the site of my own infection, my own wounds, my own terror. The lagoon—that beautiful, terrible body of water that had touched me in ways I still didn't understand, that had allowed Joel to grab me, that had turned my skin the colour of ash.

I never verbalised my questions, the urgency of the situation leaving little room for debate. Similarly, neither Glenda nor Jamie offered any further explanation, their focus solely on Joel. Perhaps they didn't have explanations. Perhaps they were operating on instinct, on hope, on the desperate logic that if the lagoon had kept Joel alive this long, perhaps it could do more.

As we moved beyond our campsite, the weight of Joel's limp form a sombre reminder of the grave circumstances, I couldn't help but feel a deepening sense of foreboding. The lagoon waited ahead, beautiful and mysterious and terrifying. And we were carrying a dead man toward it, hoping for another miracle while I hid the evidence of the last one beneath my sleeve.