The Charcoal Splinter

"Trust doesn't mean understanding how someone does the impossible—it means believing they will when everything depends on it."

As I sifted through the Drop Zone, my focus solely on the elusive box of tent pegs, the familiar burst of colours from the Portal caught my attention. The swirling aperture had become an almost ordinary feature of our landscape now — extraordinary in its impossibility, mundane in its frequency. The sight was always a prelude to something new, something unexpected. Luke emerging with groceries. Luke appearing with boxes of shelving for sheds we hadn't built. Luke materialising with excuses and promises and that particular blend of helpfulness and chaos that seemed to define his every action.

Now, it heralded the arrival of a tall, slender woman whose entrance seemed almost serene against the backdrop of swirling energies. She stepped through the Portal as if crossing a threshold rather than traversing dimensions, her posture straight, her bearing composed. Her long, blonde hair, cascading around her shoulders, caught the light in a way that made it seem almost ethereal, especially against the vibrant hues of the Portal. The contrast was striking — this elegant figure emerging from a tear in reality, looking as though she'd just stepped out of a professional conference rather than through an inter-dimensional gateway.

Dressed in professional attire — long navy slacks and a crisply fitted white button-down shirt — she presented a stark contrast to our dust-covered, makeshift camp. Everything about her spoke of competence, of order, of a world where things functioned according to predictable rules. Her steps, confident and unfazed, turned her black shoes a shade of brown as they met the soft, omnipresent dust of Clivilius. The red powder claimed her immediately, as it claimed everything, but she didn't seem to notice or care.

"This is Glenda," Luke announced with a volume that filled the space between us, his presence quickly materialising beside the newcomer. "Glenda is a doctor in Hobart," he added, a visible sense of accomplishment lighting up his features.

I was utterly gobsmacked. The word echoed through my mind, inadequate but accurate. Luke had actually done it; he'd brought a doctor into Clivilius. A real doctor. Not instructions printed from the internet. Not well-meaning advice shouted across dimensions. An actual medical professional, standing in the red dust, ready to practise her craft in a place where medicine had seemed as distant as the stars this world didn't possess.

The reality of it left me momentarily speechless, my mind racing.

How the hell did he manage to pull that off? The question echoed through my thoughts, mingling with a surge of relief and disbelief.

Luke's ability to navigate our needs with tangible solutions was a cornerstone of our survival, but this... this was beyond anything I had anticipated. I'd asked for a handyman. I'd hoped for medical supplies. Instead, Luke had delivered an entire physician, complete with the calm assurance that only years of training can provide.

The arrival of Glenda, a doctor, no less, into our fold was a game-changer. It was a beacon of hope, not just for Jamie's immediate needs but for our overall chances of maintaining health and safety in an environment that was anything but forgiving.

Glenda extended her hand toward me, her gesture one of professional warmth.

"It is a pleasure to meet you…" She began, her voice trailing off invitingly for my name.

"Paul," I filled in quickly, taking her hand in a firm shake, trying to convey a sense of gratitude and respect in the gesture. Her grip was confident, her skin cool despite the heat. The handshake of a professional meeting a patient's family member — reassuring without being presumptuous. "I'm Luke's brother."

"Of course," Glenda replied, her accent thick, adding an intriguing layer to her presence.

German? Or maybe Swiss? It was hard to pinpoint, but it lent her an air of worldly experience that somehow made her presence feel even more legitimate. Doctors with European accents appeared in films and television, treating impossible cases with calm authority. Now one stood before me in an alien desert.

"I see the resemblance now," She observed, a slight smile touching her lips as she made the connection. I wondered what she saw — the shared slope of our noses, perhaps, or the way we both stood with our weight slightly forward. The family markers that biology inscribes regardless of how different two brothers might become.

"Paul burnt his foot last night," Luke interjected, drawing Glenda's professional focus toward me. "He seems to be doing okay with it, but I reckon a bit of medical attention wouldn't hurt."

"Sure," Glenda responded without hesitation. Turning to me, she commanded gently, "Show me your foot," her tone leaving no room for protest.

Her efficiency caught me off guard. Glenda hadn't even been in Clivilius for five minutes, and already she was ready to dive into her role as a doctor. No questions about where she was or how she'd arrived. No demands for explanation about the impossible journey she'd just taken. Just immediate, professional focus on the task at hand. Her eagerness to help, despite the unfamiliar surroundings and the abruptness of her arrival, piqued my curiosity about what had motivated her to join us in this uncertain world.

I obliged, lifting my leg toward her with a mix of reluctance and relief. The action felt oddly personal in the context of our brief acquaintance, yet necessary under the circumstances. The burn had been a constant companion, throbbing its reminder with every step. Having someone qualified actually look at it felt like a luxury I hadn't dared hope for.

"Oh, no, no. Not yet," Luke's voice cut through the air, halting the process before it had even begun. His concern was palpable, adding a layer of urgency to the situation. "There is another man, in far more need than Paul."

"Take me to him," Glenda responded immediately, her professionalism shining through her prompt readiness to assist. "And I shall take a look."

Luke's gaze shifted to me, seeking information.

"Where's Jamie?" He inquired, his voice laced with concern.

I swallowed hard, the weight of the situation pressing down on me. The hours since Luke had last been here had not been kind to Jamie. What had seemed like improvement had revealed itself as the brief rally before a deeper decline.

"He's resting in the tent. I think he has a fever," I admitted, the words feeling inadequate to convey the seriousness of Jamie's condition. Fever meant infection. Infection meant the wound was winning. Infection meant everything we'd feared was coming true.

"Shit," Luke exclaimed, his frustration evident. "What happened? I thought he was feeling better?"

"He seemed much better when we ate. But soon after... He looks pretty bad," I explained, struggling to keep my voice steady as I recounted Jamie's rapid decline.

The transformation had been swift and frightening — one moment Jamie was alert enough to snatch treats from Duke's mouth, the next he was shivering despite the heat, his skin alternating between flushed and pale, his eyes struggling to focus on anything at all.

Glenda wasted no time.

"Take me to him. Now," she commanded, her tone leaving no room for delay.

Surprised by Luke's deference, I found myself taking the lead as he gestured for me to guide Glenda to Jamie. Despite the gravity of the situation, I couldn't help but feel a sense of appreciation for Luke's respect in allowing me to direct Glenda to where Jamie rested. It was a small thing, but it acknowledged my role here, my presence, my participation in this crisis we were all navigating together.

With a sense of purpose, I navigated through the dust, leading the way to the tent site.

As we approached the site, Glenda's sudden exclamation pierced the air, her concern palpable and immediate.

"Oh my God!"

Her eyes quickly assessed the scene, landing on the half-built tent with evident alarm. The skeletal structure of poles and partially secured canvas must have looked, from her perspective, like the aftermath of a collapse.

"He's not trapped under there, is he?" She asked, already moving toward it with a sense of urgency.

The misunderstanding, though tense for a moment, was almost comical under the circumstances. I couldn't suppress a chuckle, appreciating the absurdity of the situation amidst our concern for Jamie. Here was a doctor who had just crossed dimensions, immediately assuming the worst about my construction abilities. She wasn't wrong to question them, but the specific failure she'd imagined was at least one I hadn't achieved.

"Oh, no," I quickly reassured her, gesturing towards the actual shelter where Jamie was resting. "He's in the fully built tent."

"Thank God," Glenda breathed out, her relief audible as she redirected her steps towards the intended destination.

"That one is just my attempt to put a tent up by myself," I added, feeling a slight flush of embarrassment as I admitted to the incomplete structure. It stood as an expression of my efforts, however inadequate they might seem in the shadow of Glenda's swift professionalism.

"Oh, I see," She responded, a hint of understanding in her tone. The judgment I'd expected didn't materialise. Perhaps she understood that survival demanded attempting things you'd never been trained for, or perhaps she simply had more pressing concerns than my construction skills.

As Luke held back the tent flap, allowing Glenda and me to step inside, the atmosphere was heavy with anticipation and concern. The interior felt different now — darker, somehow, despite the same filtered light. The air carried a thickness that hadn't been there before, a weight that seemed to press against the canvas walls.

"Jamie?"

Luke's voice, soft and filled with worry, cut through the silence, but Jamie remained unresponsive. He lay on the mattress exactly where I'd left him, but something had shifted. His stillness wasn't rest anymore. It was something else entirely.

Glenda wasted no time, moving quickly to Jamie's side with a sense of purpose that was both reassuring and alarming. Her hands found his forehead first, then his pulse, then the wound itself — a choreography of assessment that spoke of years of training applied to countless patients.

"He's not good. Not good at all," she announced, her professional assessment of Jamie's condition coming after a brief examination of the burst welt on his chest.

Her words, stark and unfiltered, sent a chill down my spine. I'd known it was bad. I'd watched it worsen. But hearing a medical professional confirm my fears made them suddenly, terribly real.

"What happened here?"

Glenda's question was directed at Luke, but it was I who responded, feeling a need to provide some explanation for the bizarre and unfortunate accident. The guilt that had been simmering beneath every moment of the day rose up, threatening to choke me.

"A hot coal struck him in the middle of the night," I explained, hoping to convey the seriousness of the situation without delving into the chaotic details of that night.

Glenda's reaction — a look of wide-eyed bewilderment — was understandable. The circumstances under which Jamie had been injured were as extraordinary as our current living situation.

"It's a long story," I added quickly, hoping to steer Glenda's focus back to Jamie's immediate needs rather than the peculiarities of our predicament.

"Later, then," Glenda agreed, her attention returning to Jamie.

As I stood there, watching Glenda work, I realised I had been biting the inside of my left cheek. The tension was palpable, each of us wrapped up in our worries yet united in our hope for Jamie's well-being. My jaw ached from clenching. My hands had balled into fists without my permission. Every muscle in my body seemed to be bracing for impact.

"I need a cloth," Glenda's voice broke through my thoughts, her focus unwavering as she prepared to address Jamie's condition with the seriousness it demanded.

Luke's panicked gaze met mine, a silent plea for reassurance in a moment teetering on the brink of crisis. I saw my own fear reflected in his eyes — the understanding that this was the moment where things would either turn toward hope or spiral into catastrophe.

I moved quickly, my hand finding Luke's shoulder in a gesture meant to steady us both. The touch grounded me as much as I hoped it grounded him.

"I've got this," I whispered, injecting a confidence into my voice that I hoped was more convincing than I felt.

Rifling through my suitcase, I found a clean t-shirt, the best substitute we had under the circumstances. It was one of my favourites — a soft grey cotton I'd packed for sleeping in, never imagining it would become medical equipment.

"It's clean. It's all we have," I offered, somewhat apologetically, as I handed it to Glenda.

"Seriously?"

Glenda's question, directed at Luke, was laden with disbelief. Her gaze sought confirmation, a silent inquiry into our level of preparedness. I understood the question beneath the question: You brought me to another dimension and this is what you have to work with?

Luke's response was a resigned nod, coupled with an apologetic shrug.

"I'm sorry, Glenda," he admitted, the simplicity of our supplies laid bare in this moment of need. All the shelving boxes in the world couldn't help us now. All the planning for future infrastructure meant nothing when we lacked basic medical supplies.

Turning her attention back to Jamie, Glenda muttered a terse "shit" under her breath — a faint utterance that nonetheless resonated heavily in the tense air of the tent. My body shivered in response, every instinct on high alert. Doctors didn't curse unless things were genuinely bad. I'd learned that from enough hospital dramas, and I suspected it was even more true in real life.

"He has severe swelling in the upper left of the small gap between his pectoral muscles," Glenda observed, her professional assessment tinged with concern. Her fingers traced the area with practiced sensitivity, mapping the terrain of Jamie's injury. As she gently probed the area, she announced:

"I need to relieve some of the pressure."

"Okay," Luke and I responded in unison, our voices a blend of apprehension and resolve. I didn't know what relieving pressure would entail, but I knew it was necessary. Whatever came next, we had to trust her expertise.

"Someone will need to hold him. And take those dogs outside."

As Luke stepped forward, I intercepted him, the urgency of the situation lending firmness to my voice.

"I think you better take the dogs," I stated, recognising the need for him to manage the pets and leave the medical intervention to Glenda and me. The words came out harder than I intended, but they carried a truth I couldn't articulate: Luke shouldn't watch this. Whatever bond existed between him and Jamie — whatever love had survived the betrayal and the accusations — it would be better preserved if Luke didn't see what was about to happen.

After a brief moment of hesitation, Luke acquiesced, gathering Duke and Henri with a gentle urgency. He led them outside, sealing the tent behind him to ensure a controlled environment for Glenda to work. The zip's closure marked a delineation between the severity of our predicament and the focused effort to aid Jamie. The sound was final, decisive. We were committed now.

Kneeling beside Glenda, I felt the gravity of the situation weigh heavily upon me. Her instructions were clear, yet the task at hand seemed daunting.

"Hold his shoulders down," she directed, her voice steady and authoritative.

As I reached across her to comply, our arms brushed awkwardly — a reminder of the cramped space and the urgency of our actions. The tent that had seemed adequate for sleeping felt impossibly small for surgery, if that's what this was. Every movement required negotiation, every position required compromise.

"It'd be best if you sit on his waist," Glenda suggested next, her advice practical yet something about the positioning felt inherently uncomfortable to me. The intimacy of the position — straddling another man, pinning him down — .

"Lightly," she quickly added, sensing perhaps my hesitation.

I did as instructed, positioning myself cautiously atop Jamie's waist, keenly aware of his vulnerability and my responsibility to keep him still. His body felt fragile beneath me, diminished by fever and pain. The man who had swung a pickaxe and mixed concrete just earlier this morning now seemed barely substantial enough to anchor me.

"He's likely to try and move suddenly," she warned, her tone implying that what was to come might not be pleasant.

My mind was a whirlwind of concern and confusion. I understood the necessity of Glenda's presence and her medical expertise, yet the specifics of her intended procedure were a mystery to me. Jamie, for his part, remained oblivious to the preparations, his slumber undisturbed by our quiet but tense conversation. His breathing was shallow, rapid — the rhythm of a body fighting something it couldn't see.

Observing Glenda's actions, I noticed her attention was fixed on a small lump near Jamie's left pectoral muscle — a detail that had escaped my notice until now. Had that been there before? Had I missed it in my inexpert examinations of his wound? She prepared the area with a makeshift sterility that the clean t-shirt offered, her fingers delicately probing the flesh surrounding the lump.

It was evident she was assessing the situation, determining the best course of action to alleviate Jamie's discomfort. Yet, without any visible tools for incision and no prior sterilisation of the area, doubts clouded my mind.

How is she planning to proceed without making an incision? And without sterilised equipment?

The questions lingered, unanswered.

Despite my apprehensions, I reminded myself to trust in her expertise.

She's the doctor. Leave it to her, I silently reassured myself, trying to quell the rising tide of worry.

Fifteen years of running a business had taught me the value of trusting specialists. You didn't second-guess your accountant's tax advice or your lawyer's contract recommendations. This was the same principle, applied to a situation where the stakes were exponentially higher.

"You ready?" Glenda's voice cut through the tense silence, her focus unwavering from the spot on Jamie's chest she had identified as needing attention.

"Ready," I managed to reply, my voice betraying the anxiety I felt. The seriousness of the moment, the anticipation of what was to come, left a tightness in my chest. I adjusted my grip on Jamie's shoulders, feeling the warmth of his fever-flushed skin through my palms.

Glenda's posture shifted slightly, a silent signal of her preparation.

Don't hesitate now, Glenda, I thought, my mind racing with a mix of fear and hope.

Then, with a confidence that spoke of her expertise, Glenda pressed her fingertips firmly into Jamie's chest. The reaction was immediate; Jamie's body tensed sharply beneath me, his sudden movement restricted by my hold on his shoulders. The force of his resistance surprised me — this fever-weakened man suddenly possessed a strength born of pure agony.

His eyes snapped open, and a scream of pain escaped him — a sound so raw it pierced straight to my core. I had never heard a human being make a sound like that. It was primal, animal, stripped of everything civilised and reduced to pure suffering. Instinctively, my grip on his shoulders tightened, an effort to both comfort him and hold him steady against the reflex to move away from the source of his pain.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," the words tumbled from my mouth, though I doubted he could hear them over his own screaming.

Outside, Duke's barking added to the chaos, his protective instincts riled up by Jamie's scream, creating a symphony of distress that seemed to fill the entire world.

"Jamie!" Luke's voice joined the tumult, filled with concern and confusion. I could hear him struggling with the tent flap, trying to get inside.

"Stay out!" Glenda commanded firmly as Luke attempted to enter.

Duke, driven by loyalty and distress, growled menacingly, his protective nature putting him on edge as he ran up behind Glenda. The small dog's teeth were bared, every instinct telling him that someone was hurting his person.

"Get them the fuck out!"

Glenda's focus remained unshaken, her directive clear amid the unfolding drama. Her priority was Jamie's well-being, and despite the pandemonium, her determination to alleviate his suffering was evident.

The tension in the tent was palpable, a thick, heavy air that seemed to press down on all of us. My grip on Jamie's waist had loosened momentarily as my instincts kicked in to protect Glenda from Duke's protective aggression. I twisted, reaching toward the dog, trying to intercede before the situation spiralled further out of control.

"Don't you move," she commanded sharply, her focus unwavering from the task at hand.

Her stern gaze was enough to snap me back into position, a reminder of the critical role I played in this precarious procedure. I was the restraint. I was the anchor. Without me, Jamie's thrashing could do more damage than the wound itself.

Jamie's pain-filled screams cut through me, each cry sending a wave of helplessness and sympathy coursing through my veins. My heart ached for him, my eyes watering in response to his agony. This was the man my brother loved. This was the man who had cursed Luke and accused him of murder and still, somehow, remained connected to him by bonds I couldn't fully understand. And I was holding him down while he screamed.

Luke's timely intervention, pulling Duke away from Glenda, was a small relief, but my attention was quickly drawn back to the grim task at hand.

"Hold him. It's nearly there," Glenda's voice, firm and authoritative, anchored me despite the emotional turmoil I felt.

Her instruction was a lifeline in the tempest of Jamie's cries and the unsettling atmosphere that filled the tent. Nearly there. An end was in sight. There was something to hold onto.

Curiosity and dread mingled as I glanced down at Glenda's work. The sight of grey and yellow pus being expelled from Jamie's chest was horrifying — a viscous mixture that seemed impossibly voluminous, as if his body had been manufacturing poison for days. But it was the appearance of a small, black mark that truly caught my attention.

What the hell is that? The question echoed in my mind, a mix of fear and fascination at the foreign object that had caused so much pain.

"Last time," Glenda announced, her tone indicating the culmination of her efforts.

The final push was met with another of Jamie's screams, a sound so raw and pained that it seemed to resonate with the very walls of the tent. The canvas seemed to shudder in sympathy, the entire structure vibrating with the force of his agony.

Then, suddenly, there was a pop — a sound so unexpected and grotesque in its implications that for a moment, time seemed to stand still. A long, black splinter, accompanied by a gooey, gunky mess, oozed its way out of Jamie's chest, marking the end of Glenda's procedure.

I stared at it, uncomprehending. A splinter. A charcoal splinter, embedded in Jamie's chest since last night’s accident. The ember hadn't just burned him — it had left a fragment behind, a foreign invader that his body had been fighting. All that infection, all that suffering, all because a piece of charred wood had buried itself beneath his skin without any of us knowing.

The relief I felt at the removal of the object was quickly overshadowed by the foul odour that followed, an assault on the senses that made my stomach churn. The smell was indescribable — rot and corruption and something almost metallic, the scent of a body trying to expel poison. I gagged, swallowing hard against the bile that rose in my throat.

As Glenda methodically cleaned the area with the t-shirt, she brought the long, charcoal splinter close to my face, prompting an involuntary cringe. The thing was larger than I'd expected — nearly two centimetres of blackened wood that had been lurking inside Jamie's chest.

"I'm guessing nobody knew that was in there?" She queried, her tone implying both curiosity and a hint of incredulity at the discovery.

I shook my head, too appalled to offer a verbal response.

"I certainly didn't," I managed to say after a moment, my voice muffled as I pressed the back of my hand against my mouth, a feeble barrier against the revulsion threatening to overcome me.

Thankfully, Jamie's body ceased its squirming, his breathing slowing to a more regular pace, signalling that the worst was likely over. The tension in his muscles released, his features softening from a mask of agony into something closer to exhausted peace.

"I need some clean water," Glenda announced, her voice cutting through the heavy silence that had enveloped the tent.

"I'll get it," I volunteered quickly, eager for any excuse to step away from the stifling atmosphere and the lingering odour of infection.

My legs felt unsteady as I climbed off Jamie's waist, my muscles protesting the release of tension they'd been holding. I welcomed the fresh air that greeted me as I exited the tent, filling my lungs with breath that didn't taste of suffering.

"Who the fuck are you?"

Jamie's voice followed me out, his question directed at Glenda in a confused, albeit characteristic, manner. My eyes rolled at his query, a reflex born of relief rather than annoyance.

Yep. I thought, a mix of relief and sarcasm threading through my mind. The Jamie we know and love is back.

Despite the situation, his gruff inquiry was a sign of his resilience, a trait that, under different circumstances, might have elicited a gentle rebuke rather than a sarcastic thought. But right now, hearing him well enough to be rude was the best possible outcome.

Stepping outside, I relayed Jamie's condition to Luke.

"I think he is alright," I said, trying to infuse my words with reassurance, despite the tumultuous events I'd just witnessed. The words felt inadequate — "alright" didn't capture the screaming or the splinter or the smell — but they were what Luke needed to hear.

Luke's response was a silent nod, his actions — wiping away another tear — speaking volumes of the worry and relief that battled within him.

"I need to get them some water," I reiterated, feeling the weight of responsibility settle back onto my shoulders. As I squeezed Luke's shoulder, a gesture meant to convey both comfort and solidarity, I moved past him, determined to fulfil Glenda's request.

The river awaited, its water the cleanest resource we had in this alien world. And somewhere in the back of my mind, beneath the relief and the guilt and the lingering smell of infection, a single thought persisted: Luke had delivered. Against all odds, against all reason, my brother had brought us exactly what we needed.

Perhaps there was hope for us yet.