4338.207 · July 26, 2018 AD
Strangers Who Share Blood
Jamie's son is alive—barely functional, throat too damaged for more than whispers, but alive. With cupped hands and a shoe full of lagoon water, Jamie improvises care while racing against the setting sun. When Joel insists on standing, what begins as a father carrying his son becomes something else: two strangers who share blood learning to lean on each other.
Eighteen years of fatherhood Jamie never got to practise, and now he's starting with the advanced curriculum.
Joel is alive. The word itself feels surreal—this young man with Jamie's eyes, his blood, his genetic legacy, breathing on a rock in an alien dimension after having his throat cut. Communication happens through blinks. Care happens through desperation: cupped hands that lose water through the gaps, then a shoe pressed into service because it's all they have.
"I didn't know about you until a couple of months ago." The confession hangs between them. A tear traces down Joel's cheek—the only response his damaged throat can offer.
When Joel whispers "home," Jamie's heart breaks. He can't offer Earth. But he can offer the camp, the safety of the tents, protection from the Clivilius darkness that's already painting the sky in shades of warning.
Joel insists on standing. They walk together—clumsy, treacherous, tumbling down a hill in a cloud of dust. Father and son. Learning to lean on each other. One step at a time through a world neither of them chose.
