Shouldn't Be Alive

"The good news: my throat will heal. The bad news: I broke my own finger trying to fight off the people rescuing me. Really mastering this whole survival thing."

"May I enter?" Glenda inquired, her head peeking through the tent flap.

The surprise of her sudden appearance made my breath hitch, and for a brief moment, I felt a terrifying sensation of suffocation, reminiscent of my earlier struggles.

My throat closed involuntarily—a spasm of panic at the unexpected intrusion. For a heartbeat, I was back in the void, back in the darkness where breathing was impossible because there was no body to breathe with.

Then the moment passed. Air flowed. The panic subsided.

"Yeah," Jamie responded to Glenda, his voice calm. "Come take a look at this."

Glenda ducked into the tent—the blonde woman with the European accent who had examined me yesterday. Her hair was pulled back now, practical and severe.

As he spoke, I finally managed to clear the uncomfortable air bubble in my throat.

The air rushed out, stinging the tender flesh like countless tiny pinpricks—an unexpectedly painful sensation.

Even the simple act of clearing my throat hurt. Every function that should have been automatic now required effort and caused pain.

Like driving a truck with no power steering. Everything harder than it should be.

"His hand is hurt," Jamie said, carefully extending my arm towards Glenda as she knelt beside the mattress.

I wanted to object, to say something, but words failed me.

What would I say anyway? Yes, my hand hurts, I don't know why, I don't understand anything that's happening to me? Better to let Glenda examine me. Better to let the professional make sense of what I couldn't.

Instead, I could only watch as Glenda took hold of my arm.

Her touch was unexpectedly warm, her grip firm yet gentle.

The contact was clinical but not cold. She held my arm the way I imagined a mechanic held a sensitive component—with competence, with purpose.

She started a meticulous examination, her fingers massaging my forearm and carefully pressing around my wrist.

Her movements were deliberate, assessing each detail with precision.

I watched her face as she worked, looking for clues about what she was finding. Her expression revealed nothing—the professional mask of someone who had learned not to alarm patients before reaching conclusions.

"Wrist movement seems to be fine," Glenda commented as she shifted her attention to my palm, then began examining each finger.

Relief flickered through me. My wrist was fine. That was something. Maybe the pain had been nothing serious. Maybe I had just gripped the bottle wrong.

When she touched my index finger, a sharp, unbearable pain shot through me, eliciting a croaky yelp.

The pain was worse than before—concentrated now that Glenda's examination had found its source. I felt the cry tear from my damaged throat, adding hoarseness to agony.

Tears welled up in my eyes, the pain overwhelming.

I couldn't help it. Couldn't stop them. The tears came unbidden, streaming down my cheeks as the pain radiated through my hand.

Crying like a kid who dropped his ice cream. Brilliant.

In mere seconds, Glenda had reached a conclusion.

"I believe he has a broken finger," she declared, her gaze lifting to meet mine.

There was a certain calmness in her demeanour, a professionalism that contrasted with the turmoil I was feeling inside.

Broken.

The word settled into my consciousness. My finger was broken. That explained the pain, at least. But how had it happened?

As Glenda and I locked eyes, the mix of concern and determination in her gaze was palpable.

Her simple diagnosis, confirming my broken finger, felt like yet another setback amidst the myriad challenges I was facing.

Suddenly, a vivid memory commandeered my thoughts—the sensation of water, a face, the horrific sound of my finger being cruelly twisted and snapped.

The memory crashed through me like a wave—not gradual recollection but sudden, violent remembering.

The lagoon.

A man's arm in my grip.

My fingers closing with impossible strength.

And then the snap—but not his bones breaking. Mine.

Oh shit.

I had grabbed someone. Had seized them with the desperate strength of a drowning man clutching at rescue. And in that grip, in that moment of panic and confusion, something had broken.

I gasped silently in realisation.

Had I been wrong in my initial assumption that it was Clivilius?

Could it actually have been a real person, flesh and blood, who had inflicted this injury upon me?

No. Not inflicted. I had done this to myself. Had gripped so hard that my own finger had shattered. The man—whoever he was—had probably been trying to help me. And I had thanked him by nearly crushing his arm and breaking my own finger in the process.

Nice one, Joel. Really making friends here.

The thought sent a shiver down my spine.

What kind of strength had I possessed in that moment? And what kind of weakness had left my bones so fragile that they broke from the inside out?

"How bad is it?" Jamie's voice pulled me back to the present.

Through my tear-blurred vision, I watched Glenda's reaction.

She shook her head with a mixture of concern and resignation.

"Impossible to say without an x-ray. But with our limited resources, I doubt it would make any difference, even if we could x-ray his finger."

No hospital?

My mind reeled at the thought.

Are we so isolated, so cut off from the outside world?

The implications were staggering. No hospital meant no proper medical care. No x-rays, no surgery, no medication beyond whatever basic supplies they had managed to bring.

Back home, if something went wrong, you called triple zero. An ambulance came. They took you to the Royal. Someone fixed you.

Here? Nothing. If something serious happened—if someone had a heart attack or a stroke—there would be nothing to do but watch them die.

Like being stranded in space, I thought. No rescue coming. Whatever you've got is all you've got.

Jamie's surprised reaction to Glenda's statement deepened my confusion.

Did he not realise the extent of our isolation and lack of medical supplies?

Or had the reality simply not sunk in yet? The same way it hadn't sunk in for me—that we were somewhere entirely else, somewhere where the normal rules didn't apply?

"I'll go and check what supplies we have. I should be able to take care of it. I can always ask Luke for additional supplies if I need them," Glenda said, showing a glimmer of resolve.

Luke... Jamie's partner...

I remembered vaguely.

The name triggered fragments of memory—disjointed images that flickered through my mind like a broken slideshow.

Fragments of memories about the delivery truck, a long driveway, and the mesmerising, swirling colours at the gate flitted through my mind.

The Portal. That was what they had called it. The gate I had seen Luke walk through before everything went wrong. Before the men with knives. Before the blood.

"You've spoken to Luke?" Jamie continued his conversation with Glenda, bringing me back to the present.

I decided to push aside the returning memories for the moment and focus on their conversation.

The memories could wait. The pain in my finger, the confusion about my situation—those were more immediate. The past would still be there when I was ready to face it.

Glenda, her voice laced with a newfound optimism, responded to Jamie's earlier question.

"Not this morning. But I've given him my access card for the Royal. As long as he is careful, he will have access to all the supplies we'll likely ever need."

Her words painted a picture of a resource-rich place that could offer us much-needed help.

The Royal.

Royal Hobart Hospital. The place where I had been born, probably. Massive building. Full of medicine and equipment and everything we might need.

And Luke could get to it. Could bring supplies back through the Portal.

That meant there was still a connection to home. Still a link between this place and Tasmania.

Still a way back?

Jamie let out a soft sigh.

"I'm glad you have that much faith in him," he said, though his tone suggested a hint of scepticism.

"You don't?" Glenda probed, sensing Jamie's hesitation.

Jamie's lips pulled themselves tightly closed.

Not answering the question, he gave a simple shrug, took the lid off the water bottle and held the bottle against my parched lips.

The cool water was a soothing relief as it trickled down my throat.

I tried to drink properly. Tried to swallow in the coordinated way that should have been automatic. But my throat wasn't cooperating—the muscles weak, the coordination off.

I longed to drink deeply, but I could only manage a few awkward sips.

The water went down in fits and starts, some of it going where it should, some of it...

My embarrassment grew as Glenda gently wiped the water that dribbled down my chin.

She did it without comment, without judgment—just a practiced motion, like she had done this a thousand times for a thousand patients. But I felt the shame nonetheless.

I'm pathetic.

I couldn't even drink water without making a mess. Couldn't perform the most basic function of sustaining life without someone cleaning up after me.

Mum would be horrified. Or maybe she'd just laugh and tell me to stop being dramatic.

I missed her laugh. Missed her voice. Missed everything about the life I had lost.

"Mind if I look him over?" Glenda then turned her attention back to me, seeking Jamie's permission.

Jamie glanced in my direction, his eyes asking the unspoken question.

Do you want her to examine you?

I understood what he was doing. Giving me the choice. Treating me as a person capable of making decisions rather than just a patient to be managed.

With reluctance, I gave a small nod in acknowledgment, granting Glenda the permission she sought.

The reluctance wasn't about Glenda specifically. It was about being examined at all—about having my weaknesses catalogued, my failures documented. But it was necessary. I knew that.

"Go for it," Jamie said to her.

He then turned his attention to the dogs.

"I have two hungry dogs to feed anyway."

At the mention of food, Henri, who had been resting quietly by my side, immediately sprang into action, jumping down from the mattress and running towards the bags where Jamie would likely find their food.

The transformation was immediate—from sleepy companion to eager supplicant. Henri's whole body wagged, not just his tail.

At least someone here has simple needs.

Food. Water. Warmth. Dogs had it figured out. No existential crises. No wondering about the meaning of resurrection. Just: Is there food? Good. Is there a warm place to sleep? Also good.

As Glenda began her examination, she seemed completely focused, undisturbed by the soft whimpers and impatient urging of the hungry dogs nearby.

Her hands moved across my body with clinical precision—pressing here, prodding there, checking reflexes and responses. She moved the blanket aside as needed, maintaining my modesty while still conducting a thorough assessment.

Jamie, on the other side of the tent, was attending to their needs, their anticipation palpable in the air.

I could hear the rustle of a bag opening, the excited yipping of the dogs, Jamie's quiet murmurs as he prepared their food. Normal sounds. Domestic sounds.

Except we weren't in a home. We were in a tent in another dimension, and I was being examined for injuries sustained during my resurrection from death.

Just another Tuesday, really.

After several minutes, Glenda finished her assessment.

She looked directly into my eyes, her Swiss accent thickening her words.

"Everything else seems to be okay. Your bruises will heal."

Her assurance was comforting, but within me, there was a silent plea for my internal aches to heal as well.

The bruises she could see. The bruises she could touch and catalogue and pronounce healing. But what about the damage inside? What about the throat that had been severed, the blood that had drained away, the death that had claimed me before this impossible return?

"And his neck?" Jamie's voice carried across the tent, his concern evident.

Glenda gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze before answering.

"No sign of infection," she responded, her voice carrying a note of relief.

She turned back to me, her gaze steady.

"Don't do anything strenuous and with plenty of rest, it looks like your throat will heal fine."

Her words brought a small, faint smile to my lips, a glimmer of hope amidst the pain.

My throat would heal. My voice might come back. The damage might not be permanent.

It wasn't much. But in a situation where everything seemed impossible and terrible, it was something to hold onto.

Glenda then suggested something unexpected.

"I think it might be worth keeping a bucket of lagoon water here and dabbing some on his neck every few hours. I suspect that might help," she said, presumably addressing Jamie.

Lagoon water?

"Really?" Jamie sounded as surprised as I felt at the suggestion.

Glenda's gaze was piercing as she fixed her eyes back on me.

"He really shouldn't be alive," she stated, her words heavy and unsettling.

The intensity of her gaze made me wish I could squirm, but my body remained still.

He really shouldn't be alive.

The words hung in the air like a verdict. A statement of fact that defied the evidence of my continued existence.

She was right, of course. I knew that. I had felt my throat being cut. Had felt the blood leaving my body. Had experienced the darkness of death, the void where consciousness existed without form.

I shouldn't be alive.

But I was.

Lucky me.

The gravity of her words brought tears to my eyes, stinging them intensely.

Why was I crying so much? I had never been a crier. Had prided myself on keeping my emotions under control, on being the steady one that Mum could rely on.

But something had broken loose in me. Some dam had cracked. And now the tears came unbidden, triggered by pain, by fear, by the simple overwhelming impossibility of everything that had happened.

"But he is," Glenda added quickly, perhaps sensing the impact her words had on me.

The addition was kind. An acknowledgment that whatever impossibility had occurred, I was here now. Alive. Real.

"I'd like to set up a lab to study the properties of the lagoon's water. I'll talk to Paul and Luke about it this morning."

Her words left me feeling like a specimen, an anomaly that defied understanding.

A lab to study the lagoon.

Because something in that water had brought me back from death. Had restored blood to empty veins. Had healed a wound that should have been fatal.

And Glenda wanted to understand it. Wanted to study it. Wanted to figure out the scientific explanation for the miracle that was my continued existence.

Subject: Joel Gibbons. Status: Shouldn't be alive. Notes: Investigate further.

The idea of being studied was unsettling. But I supposed I couldn't blame her. If our positions were reversed, I'd want to understand too.

The lagoon's water—could it really have played a part in my survival? The thought was bewildering.

"Why Paul?" asked Jamie, sharply.

The sharpness in his voice surprised me. There was history there—tension I didn't understand.

"With you preoccupied with Joel, it would make sense that Paul takes responsibility for leading the camp's development."

Camp? That's right... not home... camp.

The realisation was a stark reminder of my current reality.

They kept using that word—camp—instead of home. As if this place was temporary. As if they expected to move on eventually, to somewhere more permanent.

Or as if they couldn't bring themselves to call this dusty collection of tents home.

Exhausted, I let myself fall back onto the mattress, feeling every muscle in my body shudder and release tension as I lay down.

The relief was immediate. Lying flat, I didn't have to fight gravity. Didn't have to engage muscles that screamed with every motion. Could simply exist, horizontal, letting the mattress take my weight.

"Hmph," Jamie responded to Glenda's suggestion about Paul taking responsibility.

His tone carried a hint of discontent.

"Why not you? Why not Kain?"

I listened, half-drowsy, as Glenda asserted her role.

"I'm a medical professional. Medical matters are all that I have any interest in leading," she said, her voice trailing off into silence.

"And Kain?" Jamie pressed on.

Glenda's gaze met Jamie's, the tension in the tent palpable.

"Kain is a strong, young man. Luke was wise to choose him, but he lacks the experience we're going to need for our settlement to thrive."

Her words were measured, but there was an underlying firmness that hinted at deeper currents of thought.

Settlement.

Another word for what they were building. Camp. Settlement. Not home. Never home.

Jamie avoided her gaze, and the tent was engulfed in an awkward silence.

I could sense unspoken words and unresolved issues hanging in the air.

Whatever was between Jamie and Glenda—whatever history or conflict or simple personality clash—it was affecting every conversation. Creating undercurrents I couldn't navigate because I didn't understand the currents themselves.

Like walking into the middle of a movie. Everyone else knows the plot. I'm just trying to figure out who the characters are.

"Do you want me to get that bucket of water for you?" Glenda eventually broke the silence, her voice neutral.

"No," Jamie replied, his eyes finding mine.

"I don't ever want to leave your side, but it'll probably do me good to get a short walk and some fresh air."

His words were a mixture of concern and self-care.

I don't ever want to leave your side.

The declaration hit me with unexpected force. This man—this father I had only just met—didn't want to leave me. Wanted to stay close. Wanted to be here, even when it wasn't practical.

Nineteen years without a father. And now this.

"Very well, then. I'll be back shortly and we'll get that finger of yours all sorted," Glenda said, her tone gentle as she patted my leg before leaving the tent.

As the flap closed behind her, I gathered my strength to voice a question that had been forming in my mind.

"You... you don't... like her... do... you?"

The effort of speaking was immense. My words were slurred, each word had to be forced past a throat that didn't want to cooperate, shaped by a tongue that felt thick and clumsy. But I had to ask. Had to understand the dynamics of this place that was becoming my world.

Jamie's interactions with Glenda were hard to read.

He was polite to her. Cooperated with her medical instructions. But there was something underneath—a resistance, a tension, something that made his spine stiffen whenever she spoke.

Jamie seemed to catch himself mid-thought before replying.

"I'm not... she'll take good care of you," he said, his sentence redirecting halfway through.

The deflection was obvious. He had started to say something—I'm not sure about her? I'm not comfortable with her?—and then pivoted to something safer.

"Here, drink some more water."

His offer was a diversion, a way to shift focus from the unanswered question hanging between us.

I accepted the bottle, letting him hold it to my lips again. The water was still cool, still soothing against my raw throat.