Stone Age & Circling Sharks

“The bacon burned. The dog almost bit me. Breakfast was still a success.”

"For fuck's sake!" The words escaped in a sharp exhale, a blend of frustration and weary resignation as I fumbled with the frying pan over the reluctant flames I’d battled to resurrect. A hiss of fat snapped at my wrist, but I barely flinched—too focused on the dismal state of breakfast. The bacon was charred to the point of being unrecognisable, its edges curled like brittle leaves. The eggs—if you could still call them that—were dry and rubbery, a pale yellow disaster clinging stubbornly to the blackened metal. So much for comfort food.

This was meant to be a morale booster. A warm, familiar meal to anchor us in some semblance of routine, something hearty to steel us for the long day ahead. We needed that. After everything that had unravelled over the past twenty-four hours—Joel's condition, the tension, the shifting dynamics in camp—I had thought a proper breakfast might soothe the edges of our frayed nerves.

Instead, I’d produced a plateful of culinary failure.

My shoulders sagged as I took a breath, the woodsmoke curling up around me, stinging my eyes. The campfire crackled unevenly beneath the scorched pan, its flame uncertain, as though it too lacked confidence in its role.

I knew this wasn’t the first time I'd cooked over a fire. I’d camped before, hadn’t I? I could recall those weekends fondly—trips filled with laughter and thermoses of hot chocolate, stumbling through tents with bare feet and mosquito bites, burning marshmallows with impunity and calling it a success. But that was then. That was the world where we could afford mistakes, where failure was followed by takeaway or a drive home.

Here, there were no second chances. No shops. No safety net.

Here, food mattered. Everything did.

I crouched lower to inspect the fire again, nudging a stubborn log with a stick and watching embers leap up briefly before settling into sulky coals. The scent of overcooked fat and dry ash lingered in the air, mingling with the faint, clean smell of dust and dew. My hands were coated in a thin layer of soot and grease, the grit of this place embedding itself beneath my fingernails and into the folds of my knuckles.

We were, undeniably, living like it was the Stone Age.

Each day was pared back to its simplest needs—food, fire, water, rest. And though I tried to meet them with competence and purpose, there was no denying the primitive hum that underlay it all. Every task demanded effort. Every success came with bruised knees, burned fingers, or bitten tongues.

Adapting meant more than learning to cook over open flame or treat wounds with limited supplies. It was a whole-body shift—a rewiring of instinct. We weren’t just surviving out here. We were becoming something else. Something tougher. More elemental.

I exhaled slowly, gazing at the burnt bacon like it had personally insulted me. It wasn’t much. But it was something.

We'd eat what we could, laugh if possible, and carry on.

Because that's what we did now.

"Everything alright, Glenda?" Kain's voice sliced cleanly through the fog of my frustration, startling me mid-snarl as he approached, freshly returned from the river. Damp tendrils of his hair clung to his temples, droplets glistening on his skin like dew. He looked irritatingly refreshed.

"How the hell am I supposed to control the heat on this thing?" I barked back, my voice cracking slightly with the pent-up irritation I hadn’t meant to unleash on him. I whipped the frying pan off the flames with a clang, its contents—a ruined mess of shrivelled bacon—sizzling as they hit the coals. Smoke billowed up, acrid and mocking. "Bacon should be fuck-easy to cook!"

Kain didn’t flinch. His calm was infuriating and oddly comforting. “Would you like me to take over?” he offered, kneeling smoothly beside me, extending a hand not just to help, but to rescue me from my own exasperation.

“No!” The word snapped from me like a whip, instinctive and far too sharp. I jerked the pan protectively toward my chest, as if it were something sacred I’d failed to defend properly. The silence that followed was thick. Embarrassment bubbled under my skin.

I drew in a breath—then another—forcing the fury down, burying it under a hard-earned composure. “I need to be able to get this right,” I said at last, more to myself than to him. The fire wasn’t just a challenge. It was a test. Of control. Of capability. Of identity.

“Well,” Kain said patiently, “probably the easiest way to control the heat is to move to a cooler or hotter part of the fire. Looking at the state of that bacon, I’d suggest maybe moving over there.” He pointed to a spot where the flames licked lower, more subdued.

I followed the direction of his gesture. The embers there were glowing a steady orange—not wild, not temperamental. Unlike me.

His advice was straightforward, logical, and—perhaps most importantly—free of any trace of mockery. My pride didn’t like it, but it couldn’t argue.

“Thanks,” I murmured, my voice quieter now, humility loosening the tension in my jaw. I shifted to the cooler section, kneeling again and adjusting the pan over the lower heat, feeling instantly more in control.

“And normally,” Kain added, “you’d want to cook on a grill plate, help keep the pan level. But we don’t have one.”

That earned a quiet exhale from me. “Can I rest the pan on the coals?” I asked, eager for a shortcut, for something simple.

“I wouldn’t. Not with bacon and eggs, anyway. They’d end up like charcoal very quickly.”

My gaze drifted toward the blackened remains of my first attempt, now smouldering in a sad little pile like a warning. I swallowed hard—regret or smoke, I couldn’t tell.

“You’ll just have to try and keep your arm as steady as you can, and you can always raise and lower the pan from the heat if it gets too hot,” Kain offered, his tone gentle but practical.

The advice—real, usable, kind—struck a chord. Not pity. Not condescension. Just help. Useful, grounding help.

“I’ll talk to Paul and see if he can get Luke to bring us some more camping equipment,” he added, already beginning to rise, brushing the dust from his knees.

“Thank you,” I said with more weight now, meaning it. My shoulders felt lighter, less clenched. I reached for another batch of bacon, the fresh strips glistening in the morning light like a second chance.

“Oh, and Kain?” I called out as he turned to leave, a thought sparking amid the smoke and morning haze.

“Yeah?”

“Paul went to the Drop Zone. Can you please get him for me? Eating breakfast is mandatory for everyone this morning.”

He gave a short nod, his voice steady. “Sure.”

And with that, he disappeared into the tent, leaving me with my pan, my fire, and a renewed determination to get this right—not just the bacon, but everything.

Refocusing entirely on the task at hand, the campfire became my singular challenge—a flickering, temperamental adversary that demanded all my concentration and patience. It hissed and popped beneath the pan like a creature with a will of its own, daring me to master it. I barely registered Kain’s quiet departure towards the Drop Zone, catching only the brief upward lift of his hand from the corner of my eye. I didn’t return the wave. I couldn’t. My world, for that moment, had shrunk to fire, food, and focus.

Each movement became deliberate: shifting the pan to cooler embers, lifting it slightly to control the sizzle, stirring the eggs slowly to avoid scorching. The fire crackled as if it, too, was coming to terms with our uneasy truce. This wasn’t just breakfast anymore—it was an assertion of control over chaos, a small act of defiance in the face of a world that had stripped so much away.

And then, like a quiet miracle, it began to come together. The bacon, once rebellious and blackened, now crisped into golden ribbons, curling at the edges just the way I liked it. The decision to switch from fried eggs to scrambled hadn’t been defeat—it had been adaptation. I wielded the wooden spoon like a surgeon’s scalpel, coaxing the curds into soft, fluffy mounds while the beans, snug in their dented tin pot, bubbled cheerfully to the side.

A deep, satisfying breath escaped me, mingling with the warm morning air and the scent of sizzling bacon. A modest smile tugged at the corners of my lips. There it was—the breakfast I had envisioned. Not perfect, but hearty and good. Something nourishing, not just for the body, but for the spirit.

This wasn’t about impressing anyone. It was about reclaiming a fragment of normality, a sense of rhythm in the uncertain cadence of our new lives. It was about proving—perhaps to myself more than anyone else—that even in a strange land, without proper equipment or familiar comforts, I could still create something meaningful.

Looking down at the generous spread—bacon stacked high, scrambled eggs steaming, beans gently simmering—I felt an unexpected bloom of pride. This was more than just a meal. It was a statement: we’re still here. We’re still trying. And we still care enough to make breakfast for one another.

As Jamie emerged from the tent, blinking against the growing light, Duke—ever the opportunist—shot out ahead of him with purpose in his stride. He positioned himself directly beside me, or rather, beside the breakfast I’d so painstakingly coaxed into being. His posture was casual, but his eyes gave him away: a pleading, imploring look that barely masked the eager anticipation simmering beneath his calm exterior.

I sighed, the corners of my mouth twitching upward despite myself. “You again?” I murmured, tearing off a small piece of bacon. I held it out to him, and he accepted it with the kind of restrained grace that made me think of a gentleman bowing at court—refined, deliberate, charming. It was a far cry from the ravenous gulp I’d been expecting. For a dog his size, Duke had the table manners of a seasoned diplomat.

But peace, as always, was fleeting.

Before I could enjoy the rare calm, Henri materialised beside us, as if summoned by the scent of bacon or perhaps by Duke’s telltale look of satisfaction. His energy burst forth in contrast to Duke’s composed air—his foxy tail was already a wagging blur, his little paws bouncing as though he might spring into the frying pan if I didn’t hand over a ration immediately.

"Careful, he's a little…" Jamie began, his warning lingering in the air like a bell not quite rung.

Too late.

I extended a piece of bacon, and in an instant, Henri lunged—his tiny mouth opening with alarming speed and precision.

"Shit!" I yelped, jerking my hand back as his teeth grazed the edge of my fingers. He hadn't broken the skin, but the surprise alone made me recoil. For something so small, Henri attacked food with the enthusiasm of a creature twice his size and three times as hungry.

“… shark,” Jamie finished, his voice now laced with laughter as he crossed the campsite. His grin was infectious, though I was still shaking my hand out and glaring at Henri like a scolded toddler.

"But he's always so placid," I muttered, watching as Henri swallowed the bacon whole. He didn’t even chew—just inhaled it, like food was a limited-time offer and he intended to claim every bite before someone else could.

Jamie shrugged, his face creasing with a familiar fondness. "Unless there’s food involved, and he always seems to know when and where.”

"Hmph." I gave an exasperated grunt, folding my arms in mock indignation as I tucked my hands firmly out of reach. Henri was still hovering, his nose twitching as he followed every movement of the pan like a culinary bloodhound.

"No more, Henri. You’ve already had your breakfast," Jamie said firmly, the command softened by the warmth in his voice. It wasn’t a rebuke, just a gentle reminder.

Henri let out a tiny huff, his tail slowing to a more thoughtful rhythm as if contemplating whether he could sneak another bite by sheer force of charm. The dogs were such a constant now, their behaviours familiar, almost comforting—wild, stubborn, and loyal. In a world that had turned inside out, they were, somehow, exactly what we needed.

"You need to make sure you eat some breakfast too," I insisted, carefully arranging several rashers of bacon and a heaped spoonful of scrambled eggs onto a plate. The motion was slow and deliberate, my focus narrowed to the task even as the morning bustle of the camp stirred around me. As I angled the plate towards Jamie, I had to navigate around Duke and Henri’s animated snouts, which danced eagerly at the edge of the food like children crowding a sweets jar. Their enthusiasm was almost charming—almost—but it also added a precarious element to the simple act of serving a plate.

"Thank you," Jamie said, accepting it with a genuine smile that briefly softened the tension still hanging between us. "Is there some for Joel too?"

"Of course," I replied, a flicker of guilt surfacing in my chest. How had I not prepared something for him already? The lapse was momentary but jarring. I prided myself on being efficient, reliable. Why is my brain so scattered this morning? The thought lingered as I reached for another plate, stacking it neatly with food for Joel—bacon, eggs, beans. Comfort in calorie form.

"Have some beans too," I added, gesturing for Jamie to bring his plate closer once more. I spooned a generous helping over the eggs, the warmth rising in faint curls of steam that reminded me just how fleeting comfort could be in this place.

"Thanks, smells good," Jamie remarked, the approval catching me slightly off guard. It shouldn't have meant anything—yet it did. A small nod of affirmation that I hadn’t completely failed the morning.

I rested the frying pan on a log nearby, then straightened to my full height. Years of medical work had taught me how to speak with authority when needed, how to call out over pandemonium and be heard. Drawing a breath, I summoned my voice: "Pau-ul! Ka-ain!" I called, the names stretching into the morning like a summons across the clearing. "Breakfast!" It wasn’t just a call to eat—it was a plea for us all to return, to ground ourselves, however briefly, in the ritual of a shared meal.

"Where are they?" Jamie asked, around a mouthful of bacon, the grease glistening on his fingers. He didn’t bother with table manners anymore. None of us did.

"Drop Zone. I'm surprised they're not back by now." The words slipped out before I could temper the concern that underpinned them. I scanned the edges of the camp instinctively, as though willing them to appear through sheer focus.

Jamie scoffed—an audible shrug. He didn’t share my worry, or perhaps just refused to show it. "Thanks," he added, tone clipped, as he picked up Joel’s plate and turned towards the tent, his movements brisk, like a man eager to avoid further discussion.

I followed him a few paces, the doctor in me compelled to speak. "I'd like to be present when you feed him."

"Feed him!? He's not a dog," Jamie snapped, turning slightly as he threw the words over his shoulder. His annoyance landed hard—sharper than I’d intended. The phrasing had been clinical, not meant as an insult, but I saw now how it might have sounded.

"Speaking of dogs," he added, glancing toward Henri, who was sniffing a little too closely around the pan, "I wouldn't leave any of the food unattended while the little shark is circling."

"Hmm," I muttered, crouching low and throwing a protective arm across the remaining breakfast, Henri’s nose nearly brushing my elbow. I felt the sting of Jamie’s rebuke but chose to absorb it quietly. There was too much at stake to fan the flames of yet another argument.

Still crouched beside the food, I managed a small smile as Jamie turned away. "Let me know how he gets on," I said, careful to keep my voice even, cooperative—diplomatic.

"Sure," Jamie replied without turning, his tone neutral. Duke trotted beside him with quiet loyalty, leaving me alone with Henri, the fire, and the sting of words I hadn’t meant to say quite so poorly.

I eyed the lingering Henri suspiciously. "There's no more for you." My voice was firm, yet gentle—a futile attempt to dissuade his relentless pursuit for more scraps. He tilted his head, eyes wide and imploring, his tail giving a hopeful thump against the dirt. Undeterred, he remained where he was, ever the optimist in the face of dwindling odds, a furry sentinel posted beside the scent of sizzling memories.

Then it happened.

A scream—shrill, human, and unmistakably female—ripped through the camp, tearing apart the relative calm of the morning. My entire body snapped to attention, the hairs on my arms rising, my heart thudding into a sprint before my legs even moved. In a single breath, I transitioned from cook to clinician, from calm to combat-ready.

Jamie burst from the tent as though propelled by the same invisible force that had struck me, his expression one of instant alarm. His wide eyes locked with mine for a fleeting second, and in that moment, we didn’t need to speak—we both understood the potential gravity of what we'd heard.

My thoughts scrambled. That voice—definitely not Paul, nor Kain. It didn’t belong to anyone I recognised. Still, my brain pinged in every direction, looping through endless permutations of concern. Where the hell are Paul and Kain? The question pulsed at the back of my skull, each beat of my heart a reminder of their absence and the potential for danger.

"I'll go," I declared, the words leaving my mouth with absolute conviction, as if my body had taken over long before my mind could object. I rose swiftly, wiping my palms against my trousers in a purely reflexive motion.

"You watch the food." The words felt absurdly mundane against the backdrop of panic, but they served their purpose. They grounded us—reminded us that life continued, even as its edges frayed. Even in emergency, someone had to make sure Henri didn’t claim the rest of breakfast.

Jamie nodded without hesitation, his silence brimming with a shared trust that had slowly been forged through trial. He stepped towards the fire and the scattered remains of our meal with a quiet purpose, the tension etched into his shoulders betraying his own worries.

I didn’t wait to see him settle. My feet had already begun to carry me towards the Portal, each stride fuelled by adrenaline and duty. The terrain blurred beneath me as my thoughts spun—was it a new arrival? A threat? Someone in pain? My breath was measured, each inhale purposeful, grounding me as I approached the place where our world ended and something stranger began.

I didn’t know what I would find. But I knew I had to be the one to face it.