The Bridge Between Us

“In a world without roads, sometimes you have to build the thing that carries you forward—one laugh, one plank, one lie at a time.”

The sun hung mercilessly in the cloudless sky, its brilliance unyielding, like a furnace suspended above our heads. The air shimmered with heat, distorting the horizon into a wavering mirage that offered only false promise. My skin was slick with sweat, each droplet sliding down my temples, soaking the collar of my shirt, pooling uncomfortably in the hollow of my back. The heat was a living thing—thick, aggressive, inescapable.

“Only one more left,” I muttered under my breath, the words dry and hoarse, swallowed quickly by the crunch of dust beneath my boots. My fingers curled around the small box, lifting it from where it had half-sunk into the powdery earth, like uncovering some half-forgotten relic. It was light in weight, yet felt inexplicably heavy in meaning. A minor treasure from a harsh land that gave nothing easily.

What had started as purposeful movement now felt like penance. The novelty of exercise in the fresh air—if one could even call it that—had long since worn off. The sun, the dust, the aching rhythm of repetition—it all merged into a blur of fatigue and futility. I had lost count of the trips. Back and forth, back and forth, each journey identical to the last, as if caught in some cruel loop with no escape.

We can't go on like this, I thought grimly, the notion searing through my consciousness like a flare. The spark of frustration ignited just beneath my ribs, persistent and simmering. A road. A path. A trolley. Anything. Just something to break this endless procession from the Drop Zone—the area now marked by the strange little piles of rocks, like a primitive breadcrumb trail across the baked earth. The name had wormed its way into my vocabulary: the Drop Zone. As if naming it made it more bearable, more manageable. It didn’t.

“Maybe we should just move camp closer,” I murmured to myself, the suggestion more a release of tension than an actual proposal—though even as the words left my lips, they began to root. It wasn’t just wishful thinking anymore. It was common sense.

Each step dragged. My boots stirred the dust like a slow tide, grains catching in the folds of my trousers, gritty and chafing. My lower back ached; my calves burned. The sun’s weight pressed down on my shoulders with invisible hands, as if punishing me for daring to hope for something easier.

But the idea of relocating camp, daunting as it was, began to take shape. It wasn’t just about convenience anymore—it was survival. The grind of these exhausting hauls, the toll it took on our bodies and morale… it wasn’t sustainable. Not here. Not like this.

Still, the logistics clawed at the edges of my mind. Moving meant disruption. Disassembling tents, hauling supplies, resetting our fragile base of operations. Risking the unknown all over again. But what was the cost of not moving?

I shifted the box in my arms, adjusting its weight. It wasn’t much, but it symbolised something larger—a sliver of control in a place that seemed determined to grind us down. As I trudged back to camp, heat shimmering off the stones around me, the thought settled in my chest: we need to adapt, or we won’t last.

Something had to give. And soon.

Arriving back at camp, the weight of the box in my hands had settled into the grooves of my palms like it had always been there—familiar now, but no less cumbersome. The dust clung stubbornly to my boots, the midday heat still radiating off the packed earth like a fever that refused to break. My shoulders ached with the strain of repetition, yet something about the stillness ahead pulled my attention from the discomfort.

I caught sight of Paul at the riverbank, his figure framed by the broad sweep of water behind him. He stood motionless, his posture contemplative, like a statue weathered by time and thought. There was a stillness about him that felt out of place in the bustle of camp life, and I paused mid-step, curiosity stirring. He's been standing there for quite some time, I noted inwardly, narrowing my eyes against the sun. Whatever he was thinking, it held him deeply.

Then, without warning, his voice rang out—startlingly loud in the hush of the afternoon.

"Yes!" he cried, the single word bursting with conviction, reverberating across the riverbank like a shout of triumph.

I blinked in surprise, caught off-guard by the sudden shift in energy. “What is?” I called, quickening my pace to close the distance, the box still cradled in my arms.

As I drew closer, Paul turned, his face alight with a kind of raw enthusiasm I hadn’t seen in him before. It was as though something had broken free within him, a floodgate opened. “I was just thinking about what you said yesterday. About building a bridge,” he explained, his voice lifting with the clarity of a man who had moved from uncertainty to inspiration.

“Oh, and?” I prompted, my curiosity now sharpened to a fine point.

He turned back toward the water, his arms lifting as if to frame the future. His hands moved with animation, sketching invisible lines in the air while he described his vision. A primitive wooden bridge, he said—functional, minimal, but solid. His words painted it vividly before my mind’s eye: planks laid side-by-side in rough symmetry, rope lashed at the joints, an upper railing built high enough to offer reassurance without over-complication. The image materialised in my imagination like a ghost structure waiting to be born.

And then he took it further—turrets, he said, one on either end. Not true defensive towers, but raised wooden platforms, watch points, perhaps even small shelters where someone could keep lookout. His tone shifted slightly here, from excited builder to concerned protector. The thought of defence, of preparedness, had clearly been weighing on him too.

I found myself nodding, slowly at first, then with growing assurance. It’s creative. Simple and practical. The idea had more merit than I’d initially credited, and now—seeing it blossom through Paul’s eyes—I began to realise it could be more than a convenience. It could be a step forward. A means to stabilise, to prepare, to expand. And for me personally, it offered something even deeper: the possibility of moving beyond this narrow sphere of survival and towards the greater reason I had come here in the first place.

That’s all I needed to open the potential of finding my father.

The thought slipped in unbidden, yet it rooted firmly in my chest. I had planted this seed with idle conversation, but Paul had tended it with unexpected seriousness. The bridge wasn’t just about crossing water—it was about crossing thresholds. Into safety. Into progress. Into the unknown.

My next challenge will be getting him to act on it. That spark needed fuel now. Direction. Determination stirred within me like a slowly rising tide, cresting with every beat of my heart. The bridge had begun as a passing idea—now it shimmered in my mind like a promise waiting to be fulfilled. I would help give it form, help hammer it into reality, one plank at a time if necessary. If Paul could imagine it, then we could build it. Together.

And just maybe, it would carry us all somewhere better.

“And,” I chimed in, my voice laced with a smile, eager to seize this moment of momentum, “if we can make them tall enough, I imagine those turrets would provide a spectacular view over the land.” The thought of combining security with something beautiful stirred something inside me—a desire not just to survive, but to live with intention. Something about blending the practical with the poetic felt important. As if this place, strange as it was, might still hold room for grace.

Paul’s smile deepened, his whole expression softening with it. “So, my simple plan has your approval then?” he asked, teasing, yet there was something genuine behind the words—an unspoken hope that his ideas mattered.

I let out a small laugh, light but warm. It was one of the rare times I felt the sound truly belonged to me, not some conditioned reflex to ease tension. “I think it’s the perfect combination of daring further exploration and security. A balance of beauty and practicality.”

“Exactly!” Paul’s exclamation burst out, filled with the earnest energy of someone who had long been searching for purpose and had finally found a glimmer of it. But just as quickly as it came, his exuberance dimmed, retreating behind a cloud of introspection. His eyes flickered toward the horizon, the humour fading, replaced by something quieter, more uncertain.

I watched him carefully, noting the way his body subtly tensed, how the animation drained from his features. There was so much about Paul I didn’t know—more than I had cared to acknowledge until now. In the rush of survival, we often reduced each other to roles: medic, cook, builder, companion. But Paul had layers. Depth. And I had barely scratched the surface.

What’s he running from? Or towards? The question sat with me, unanswered, as his silence stretched on.

“We have to make this work, Glenda,” he said finally, voice low but firm. There was no mistaking the urgency behind it, the quiet desperation tucked between his words. “We just have to.”

“I know,” I replied, matching his tone with my own steadiness. And I did know. Whether it was for survival, escape, redemption—or something more intangible—we both had stakes in this world we were shaping. So, it appears that we both have our own reasons for building that bridge, I thought, a small smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. And maybe, just maybe, we’d find those reasons weren’t so different after all.

“Shall we get this next tent up then?” I asked, the weight of our shared thoughts giving way to the grounding rhythm of practicality. My gaze shifted toward the cleared patch beside the medical tent. There was always more to do.

“May as well,” Paul agreed, a wry undertone threading through his voice, though his eyes still held that glimmer of resolve.

As we moved together toward the tent poles and canvas, a deep sense of calm settled over me. It was the kind of satisfaction that came not from answers, but from alignment. From the knowledge that, in this shifting and uncertain place, I had found someone whose pace matched mine. I like Paul, I admitted to myself. He’s going to make a very important ally. That thought—quiet, certain—lifted me as we set to work once more, the imagined bridge not only spanning water, but something far more human. Something vital.

Paul’s voice, brimming with excitement, cut through the late afternoon air like a bell of celebration. “Oh my God, I can’t believe we’re almost done!” The enthusiasm in his voice was infectious, tugging a weary smile from me despite the dull ache creeping through my arms and back. His joy felt like sunlight after days of cloud—simple, warming, and desperately needed after the long hours of labour.

“Glenda,” he called again, this time from the opposite corner of the tent, his tone dancing between admiration and disbelief, “you are an expert with tents!”

A quiet laugh escaped me as I straightened up, the muscles in my spine protesting the movement. I wiped the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand, the fabric of my sleeve gritty from dust. “I’ve had plenty of practice,” I replied, my voice wry but tinged with a soft pride. There was truth in the understatement. I’d hoisted canvas in blistering heat and torrential rain, in mountain air so thin it stole your breath and jungles so thick it smothered your every movement. Pitching tents had become as familiar to me as breathing.

“Really?” Paul paused in his task, the tension of the guy rope forgotten as he looked over at me with genuine curiosity. His expression was open, inviting me to go on—not prying, just interested.

“These are a lot simpler than the large medical tents we used in Borneo,” I said, the sentence spilling out before I could decide whether I truly meant to share it. As the words landed between us, something shifted in the air. That one name—Borneo—was enough to summon a thousand memories from their quiet corners. Damp earth. Monsoon skies. The suffocating buzz of insects. And Pierre.

Paul gasped, visibly impressed. “Borneo? What were you doing there?”

His question was innocent, but it cracked open a door I hadn’t stepped through in some time. I felt the edges of nostalgia press in as the image of that day—chaotic, hot, impossible—rose unbidden. Meeting Pierre for the first time in the tangle of that impossible logistics tent, our arms full of boxes, our tempers frayed, our eyes colliding like two opposing storms. He had challenged me within minutes, smiling all the while, maddening and magnetic.

“Oh,” I chuckled, the sound coming out softer than I expected. The memory still had texture—rough and sweet at the same time. I felt the corners of my mouth curl upward as I fiddled with one of the tent fastenings. “That’s a very long story. Perhaps we save it for the campfire sometime.”

My words were light, but they carried the weight of stories not yet ready to be told. They were an invitation, yes—but also a gentle boundary, a promise that someday, when the moment was right, I’d let those memories stretch into the open air, carried on smoke and flickering light.

“Fair enough,” Paul called back, a touch of anticipation threading through his tone. He didn’t push. He simply nodded to the rhythm of shared understanding—that we all have chapters written in places far from where we now stand, and that sometimes, the telling of them must wait for the right fire, the right night, the right listener.

For now, we focused on the work before us, side by side beneath the glow of the falling sun. And just for a moment, things felt almost… peaceful.

The moment Paul released his hold, the tent wobbled precariously, a tremble that felt almost alive as the structure threatened to collapse in on itself. A jolt of alarm surged through me, raw and instinctive, escaping in a sharp cry as the canvas billowed around me like a sudden storm.

"Glenda! You alright?" Paul's voice cut through the flurry of fabric, laced with genuine concern.

"Yeah," I muttered, dragging my head free from the folds of the tent with a grunt of effort. My hair was caught on something—again—and I tugged it loose with a wince. I glanced back at the rebellious pole, which now leaned defiantly to one side like it was mocking me. "I just can't get this darn pole to stay upright." My tone was half frustration, half disbelief—how could something so simple prove so bloody difficult?

"Here, let me try." Paul was already moving, crouching low to dive under the fabric. His presence beside me was immediate and grounding. The weight of the tent shifted subtly as his hands met mine under the canvas, his touch careful and searching.

"It should just..." I began, trying to explain the infuriatingly simple twist that had somehow eluded me. His fingers found the base of the pole, steadying it, and for a moment, we fumbled in sync, the rustle of nylon and the scrape of metal the only sounds between us.

"Am I losing my mind?" Kain’s voice rang out, slicing into the moment with its oddly light tone, a strange cocktail of humour and weariness.

My head turned automatically toward the sound, though the tent’s edge still clung stubbornly to my field of vision. All I could see was a blurred patchwork of tan and green—a canvas veil that blocked out everything but Kain’s unmistakable voice.

"I don't understand any of this," he continued, his tone shifting to something heavier. The dismay in it rang through the camp, mingling with the warm breeze that toyed with the loose tent flaps.

I pushed my head out a bit further, finally freeing myself from the worst of the canvas, and tried to offer something that resembled reassurance. "Just give yourself a few days to adjust," I said, though it came out more sharply than intended, laced with breathlessness. "It'll all start to make sense in a few weeks."

"It will?" Paul echoed beneath the tent fabric, only his head visible now, his eyebrows raised in quiet scepticism.

"Sure," I said reflexively, too fast, too certain—and I felt the lie of it settle awkwardly in my chest. I slunk back under the tent’s shadow, retreating like a tortoise into its shell, hoping Paul wouldn’t pursue the thread further. God, Glenda, that was pathetic.

"So, how is Joel doing anyway?" Paul asked, pivoting the conversation as though sensing the awkwardness and giving us both an out.

"He's... umm... he's alive, I guess," Kain replied from near the fire, his voice muted, like the words carried too many implications to say aloud.

"That's great..." Paul began, the edges of his optimism showing.

But I cut in swiftly, seizing the opportunity to divert the conversation away from Joel’s half-life, away from the writhing unease that crept in whenever we talked about him. "Hey, Kain," I called, my tone suddenly lighter, more purposeful. "It looks as though we've left the tent pegs for the next tent back at the Drop Zone. Can you go have a look, please?"

It was only partially a logistical request. Mostly, it was a chance for us all to breathe.

Kain rolled his shoulders in a slow, indifferent shrug, his expression unreadable. "Sure," he said, accepting the task with minimal resistance.

"Thanks. It’s probably a small, rectangular box." I added the description more out of habit than necessity, though I hoped it might keep his mind focused on something other than Joel, even for a few minutes.

As he wandered off, I watched him go, the space he left behind filled with a quiet I hadn’t known I needed. Sometimes it wasn’t about finding answers. Sometimes it was just about buying time—a brief pause in the chaos, a stillness that let your thoughts settle like dust in the air.

"Really?" Paul's voice broke into the calm, laced with a blend of scepticism and curiosity. The way his brow arched suggested he wasn’t buying the timing of my request at face value. His gaze lingered a little too long, the suspicion in his eyes nearly tangible.

"What?" I replied quickly, doing my best to summon a tone of casual indifference. "I remembered I left them on top of one of the larger boxes. I meant to go back for it." The words came out in a rush, not quite defensive, but certainly more rehearsed than I would have liked. As I spoke, I turned my attention back to the fabric in front of me, letting it serve as both a shield and a distraction from the pressure of Paul’s scrutiny.

"You're a woman of great mystery, Glenda. I'll give you that," Paul said, the corners of his mouth twitching with restrained amusement. There was warmth in his voice now, teasing rather than interrogating, but it still carried a note of gentle challenge—like he knew there was more behind the gesture and was content, for now, to let it lie.

The absurdity of it all—my deflection, his speculation, the goddamned tent flapping in resistance—coaxed a giggle from me. I clapped a hand over my mouth to stifle the sound, suddenly aware of how out of place it felt in this strange, sunburnt landscape. But it was real. A release of something tight and coiled that I hadn’t even realised I’d been holding in.

In truth, I hadn’t set out to manipulate anything. The memory of the tent pegs had genuinely resurfaced—though I couldn’t deny that its timing had served a dual purpose. Giving Kain a clear, achievable task had felt instinctively right. Something simple. Tangible. After everything he’d been through, his mind needed something it could grip, something grounded. Not the unrelenting spiral of existential dread Paul would’ve inevitably—though perhaps well-meaningly—talked him into.

Paul had a knack for digging, for turning a casual comment into a therapy session. And as much as I admired his insight, not everything needed to be analysed in the middle of a heat-struck afternoon with a half-collapsed tent and a friend on the brink.

So yes, I thought as I realigned the tent pole with a stubborn tug, the request had been perfectly timed. Convenient, yes. Calculated? Maybe. Necessary? Absolutely.

Still, I didn’t owe Paul that explanation. Let him ponder if he wished. I had more pressing matters to contend with—like this infuriating pole that insisted on behaving as if we were amateurs instead of two reasonably capable adults.

I adjusted my grip, driving the metal stake deeper into the hard-packed soil, my fingers smarting from the effort. The friction, the resistance—it grounded me. Gave me something to push back against. Something solid in a world that felt increasingly surreal.

Let Paul keep wondering. Let Kain take a moment of solitude. For now, this pole and I had unfinished business.