The Least I Could Do

"It's remarkable how difficult two words can be to say when you've spent all day making sure the person deserving them knows exactly how much you resent needing to say them."

The tent flap's zipper sliced through whatever dream I'd been having, the sound as sharp as a blade parting silk.

Duke's growl came immediately—low, rumbling, a vibration I felt through my ribs before I heard it. His body tensed against my leg, hackles rising at whoever was invading our sanctuary. The response was automatic, instinctual, the same protective fury he'd displayed earlier.

Must be Glenda.

I cracked open one eye, the fog of medicated sleep clinging to my consciousness like cobwebs. The tent had darkened since I'd gone under—evening light filtering through the canvas now, softer and more amber than before. Time had passed, though how much I couldn't say. The drugs had swallowed hours whole, leaving no memory of their passing.

Duke hadn't moved from his position at my side. His vigilance had outlasted my consciousness, his small body maintaining guard duty while I drifted in pharmaceutical oblivion. The disdain he'd developed for Glenda showed no signs of fading—if anything, it had calcified into something permanent.

Good boy. At least someone's looking out for me.

"It's okay, Duke," I murmured, my hand finding his head for a reassuring pat. The words came out thick, vowels rounded by lingering sedation. His muscles remained taut beneath my fingers, but the growl subsided to a quiet rumble.

"Sorry." Glenda's voice floated through the dimming space as she navigated toward me. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"I was already awake."

The lie was soft, almost reflexive, undermined immediately by the yawn that threatened to split my face in half. My jaw cracked with the force of it, tears springing to my eyes from the sudden stretch. Already awake. Sure. As if the drool I could feel dried on my cheek didn't tell a different story.

But Glenda didn't challenge the obvious fiction. She simply moved toward the blanket where the medical supplies had been laid out, her silhouette growing clearer as my eyes adjusted to the changed light.

A small curse broke the quiet.

"Ahh, shit."

Glenda's frustration was barely contained, the words escaping like steam from a too-tight lid.

"What is it?" Curiosity pulled me up onto one elbow, the movement sending a ripple of discomfort through my chest. The wound protested—not the screaming agony of earlier, but a firm reminder that damage remained.

"Several of the gauze dressings have been torn to shreds. And one of the bandages is missing."

My eyes rolled with the inevitability of the conclusion. There was exactly one suspect for this particular crime, and he was currently nestled at the foot of the mattress, probably playing innocent while the evidence surrounded him.

"Henri!"

The name burst from me—exasperation and command combined. I reached across Duke, my fingers stretching toward the second guilty party in our tent's ongoing drama. Sure enough, there it was: a bandage nestled between Henri's front paws like a trophy, already dampened with saliva and chewed at the edges.

Of course. Because we have such an abundance of medical supplies that destroying them is perfectly fine.

The frustration was real, but beneath it lurked something like affection. Henri had always been the troublemaker of the pair—the one who got into things, who treated any unattended item as a potential toy, who approached the world with a destructive curiosity that was simultaneously infuriating and endearing.

I grabbed for the bandage, engaging in a tug-of-war that Henri clearly considered a delightful game. His jaw clamped down harder, his entire body vibrating with the joy of competition. The little bastard was having the time of his life while I struggled to salvage medical supplies we desperately needed.

"I found your missing bandage," I announced as Glenda crept closer, my voice carrying the weight of frustration and resignation. The tug-of-war continued, neither party willing to concede.

Glenda's response came with a huff—the sound of patience worn thin by a day that had demanded too much of it. "You may as well let him keep it. We can't use that now."

The pragmatism sliced through my futile efforts. She was right, of course. The bandage was soggy, chewed, thoroughly contaminated by Henri's enthusiastic attention. Using it on an open wound would be worse than using nothing at all.

I let go.

Henri's small body jerked backward with the sudden release, his prize secured. He settled immediately, curling around the conquered bandage with the satisfaction of a dragon atop its hoard. His eyes closed to contented slits.

Little shit.

But there was no heat in the thought. Henri didn't understand scarcity or survival or the fact that we were trapped in another dimension with limited access to medical supplies. He understood that he'd found something interesting, claimed it, and won. In his simple canine worldview, this was triumph.

I almost envied him.

"Take these."

Glenda's command broke through my reflections, accompanied by a bottle of water and a handful of capsules thrust into my line of sight. The pills were various colours and sizes—a pharmaceutical rainbow promising relief I desperately wanted.

"What are they?"

The question was due diligence more than skepticism. After everything that had happened—the surgery, the charcoal extraction, the pain that had nearly broken me—I wasn't about to refuse medication regardless of what it contained. I was already swallowing the first capsule before Glenda could respond, the water chasing it down my throat.

"There are a couple antibiotics and then some pain and sleeping medication," she explained, her voice carrying the weight of medical authority.

The clarification registered distantly as I threw back the remaining pills. Antibiotics to fight whatever infection might be trying to take hold. Pain medication to quiet the symphony of discomfort. Sleeping medication to keep me under while my body attempted repairs.

The act of swallowing felt like victory—a small one, perhaps, but real. Each capsule represented another step away from the horror of the afternoon, another increment toward something that might resemble recovery.

I lay back down, a single wince escaping as my chest settled against the mattress. The wound was still there, still tender, still a reminder of everything that had gone wrong. But the promise of pharmaceutical intervention made it bearable.

"Watch the dog for me."

Glenda's directive was firm, her focus already shifting to the task at hand. The impersonal reference grated against something in me—the dog, as if Duke didn't have a name, didn't have a personality, didn't deserve more than generic categorisation.

No wonder Duke doesn't like you.

The thought flickered through my mind, a silent critique I kept to myself. Whatever her bedside manner lacked, Glenda had saved my life. The least I could do was refrain from voicing every critical thought that crossed my consciousness.

I reached out, draping my right arm around Duke and drawing him close. He settled into the space beneath my armpit, his warmth a familiar comfort against the uncertainty of everything else.

Duke's body relaxed marginally at the contact, though his attention remained fixed on Glenda. He was tolerating her presence for my sake, nothing more.

Glenda began her work.

Her hands moved with the practiced ease of someone who'd done this thousands of times—removing the soiled dressings carefully, revealing the wound beneath. I didn't look. Didn't want to see what remained of the damage, how the tissue had responded to the surgery, whether healing had begun or infection had returned.

Instead, I focused on sensation. The cool air hitting exposed skin. The gentle pressure of her fingers at the wound's edges. The brief sting of antiseptic—nothing compared to the agony of the extraction, but present nonetheless.

The cleanliness was her priority. I could tell by the thoroughness of her movements, the attention she paid to every corner of the injury. Whatever had been festering there—whatever poison the charcoal had introduced—needed to stay gone. The quick redressing that followed was a silent choreography of care, gauze and bandage applied with efficiency that wasted nothing.

Throughout, the exhaustion that had been lurking at consciousness's edges grew stronger. The medication was taking hold now, combining with the fatigue I'd been fighting since arriving in this place. My eyelids grew heavy, weights attached to muscles that no longer wanted to cooperate.

My face slackened. The tent, Glenda, the entire fabric of immediate reality began to blur into something hazier. The clinking of medical supplies provided a thin tether to awareness—sounds that kept me anchored to the present even as sleep pulled at my edges.

"I'm taking the supplies to the other tent." Glenda's voice cut through the fog of my drowsiness, distant but distinct. "Away from Henri."

The pragmatism of the decision registered dimly. Henri had already destroyed several dressings and claimed a bandage as his personal property. Leaving the remaining supplies within his reach would be inviting further disaster.

My fingers stretched out instinctively, finding Henri's soft fur. He'd settled near my hip, the conquered bandage still clutched between his paws. The dampened fabric had become his toy now, repurposed from medical necessity to canine entertainment.

Henri loves his new toy.

The thought carried amusement through the fatigue pressing down on me. Glenda hadn't taken the bandage back, hadn't tried to salvage it despite Henri's claims. Whether intentional or simply practical, the decision had granted him something to keep—a source of joy in a situation that offered precious little of it.

An unexpectedly thoughtful gesture. From someone Duke and I have been treating like an enemy.

The guilt that had been building all afternoon crystallised in that moment. Glenda had saved my life. Had endured my hostility, my accusations, my dog attacking her. Had extracted poison from my chest while I screamed, then returned hours later to redress the wound and administer more medication. And I'd repaid her with suspicion and resentment.

"Glenda."

Her name emerged as barely more than a whisper, a last effort to bridge the gap I'd created between us. My voice was thick with medication and exhaustion, the words difficult to form.

She turned. Her eyes—those eyes Duke had found so threatening—met mine with an intensity that felt almost tangible. There was no warmth in her gaze, no softening at being addressed. Just attention, pure and focused.

"Thank you."

The words were simple. Inadequate, probably, for everything she'd done. But they were sincere—an acknowledgment that cut through the defensiveness I'd been maintaining, the pride that had kept me from admitting how much I needed her help.

Glenda held my gaze for a moment longer. Then she gathered the supplies and left without response, the tent flap falling closed behind her.

The tent felt suddenly larger in her absence. More isolated. The canvas walls seemed to expand outward, the space growing emptier without another human presence to fill it.

Duke and Henri remained—warm, familiar anchors in a reality that had become thoroughly unfamiliar. Duke's breathing had steadied, his vigilance relaxing now that the perceived threat had departed. Henri was probably already asleep, curled around his new toy, content in his simple victories.

I stared at the canvas ceiling, watching the last amber light of evening fade toward darkness. The medication was fully in my system now—a gentle tide that lapped at the shores of consciousness, each wave pulling me further from wakefulness.