The List

“Paper shouldn’t feel heavy—but when survival is written in ink, even a grocery list can crush you.”

The tent flap stirred, a faint rustle against the stillness. My head jerked up, eyes raw and swollen from tears I'd stopped trying to hide, and through the narrow opening Paul's face appeared. His features were taut, etched with a blend of concern and steadiness, like a man walking a tightrope between fear and the need to project calm.

Duke still pressed against my chest, his small body warm and trembling. Henri sat at my knee, his dark eyes watching the tent flap with the same desperate attention I was giving it. We were all waiting—all hoping—all terrified of what might come through that canvas barrier.

For a moment I couldn't speak. My gaze clung to Paul's, wordless, pleading—begging him to deliver the reassurance I craved but no longer trusted was possible. Every fibre of me reached out, desperate for a lifeline to tether me against the storm that had been tearing me apart since Jamie's screams had stopped.

"I think he is alright," Paul said at last, his words sliding through the thick air of dread.

They should have broken the tension. Should have collapsed me into relief, into grateful sobbing, into the kind of cathartic release that comes when you've been holding your breath so long you've forgotten what oxygen tastes like. Instead they landed with a muted thud, heavy, uncertain, their comfort half-formed.

I think. Not he is. Not he's going to be fine. Just I think.

I nodded, but the gesture was hesitant, restrained, my throat too tight to shape words. My hands rose clumsily, dabbing at the wet streaks on my face, as if by erasing the evidence of tears I could somehow summon the strength Jamie needed from me. As if composure could be rebuilt from the rubble of my unravelling.

The fragile quiet cracked in an instant.

"Who the fuck are you?" The voice snarled from within the tent, jagged and hostile, slicing through the space like a blade unsheathed. The sheer force of it jolted me, my heart vaulting into my throat.

Jamie. That was Jamie's voice—but twisted, venomous, soaked in a fury I barely recognised. The fever must have hold of him still, burning away the gentleness I knew and leaving only rage in its wake.

Paul didn't falter. His reply came fast, sharp, practical. "I need to get them some water." His tone was functional, yes, but beneath it I caught the thread of tension, the careful calibration of a man trying to keep danger at bay with reason. He was buying time, creating an exit, giving Glenda space to work without interference from fevered outbursts.

As he spoke, his hand found my shoulder, warm and steady. The squeeze was fleeting, but it pulsed with everything we didn't have time to say—solidarity, reassurance, a reminder that I wasn't carrying this alone even when it felt like the world had narrowed to me and Jamie's fragile breaths.

But I couldn't stay crouched outside, waiting. Concern, urgency, and a deep, unrelenting need drove me forward. I had to see him. Had to know for myself whether I think he is alright meant anything close to actual safety.

Rising to my feet, I approached the tent flap, my pulse hammering so violently it echoed in my ears, every beat a drum of fear and determination.

The canvas loomed before me, flimsy yet formidable, a barrier between myself and the truth I dreaded to face. My hand found the fabric, trembling, and with one breath drawn tight in my chest, I stepped into the charged atmosphere of the tent.

"I'm a doctor." Glenda's voice was sharp and steady, her words landing with an authority that cut through the thick air. She didn't waver; there was no apology in her tone. Only certainty. Only the kind of confidence that comes from decades of facing down hostile patients and winning.

"And she just saved your life," I croaked as I stepped inside, my throat tight and raw. My voice carried the rasp of tears I hadn't fully concealed. "You should be grateful."

The moment the words left me, Jamie's head turned, his eyes burning with a fever-bright intensity that made my stomach clench.

"Grateful!" His retort came like a lash, sharp and unrelenting, each syllable dripping with disbelief and venom. "You expect me to be fucking grateful?"

The force of it hit me harder than I expected. His anger was raw, unfiltered, bleeding straight out of his pain, but it still struck me deep. I flinched inwardly, swallowing against the sting.

Part of me wanted to shout back, to remind him how much I'd risked for him—the Portal opened in a doctor's office, the conspiracy I'd exposed, the rules I'd broken to bring Glenda here. I wanted to list every sacrifice, every calculated gamble, every moment of terror I'd endured whilst he lay unconscious and I waited outside with the dogs.

But another part—quieter, heavier—ached with the knowledge that it was his suffering speaking, not him. The fever had its claws in him, twisting his perception, amplifying his fear into fury. This wasn't Jamie. This was Jamie's pain wearing his face.

Duke growled low at my feet, a warning that vibrated through the floor of the tent. His small body was rigid, every hair bristling as though he could take Jamie's anger and meet it with teeth. Loyal as ever, he mirrored my own turmoil, and for a breath I almost let him continue.

"Duke! Stop it!" My voice cracked between command and plea. I couldn't let his protective instincts inflame the moment further, not when Jamie's energy was so fragile, so precariously balanced between fury and collapse. Not when Glenda was already dealing with enough without adding an aggressive dachshund to the chaos.

Jamie grimaced, his body shifting on the mattress, his attempt to adjust himself only deepening his pain. The sight carved straight into me, more brutal than his words. His features tightened, every muscle straining, and for an instant he looked less like the man I knew and more like a ghost fighting to hold on to the living world.

Glenda's hand shot out, gentle yet unyielding, pressing him down with a practised ease that carried both care and control. Her presence was anchoring, her professionalism a counterweight to the chaos in the tent. Watching her steady him, I felt a flicker of gratitude stir, even as my own chest burned with helplessness.

But the moment was fragile, and Duke shattered it.

His bark exploded, sharp and defensive, ricocheting off the canvas walls with an intensity that made everyone jump. Before I could react, he lunged—not at Jamie, but at Glenda, seeing only a stranger touching someone he loved.

Glenda reacted at once, instinct driving her hand in a sharp swat, her voice rising into a command edged with exasperation. "Get off me!"

The sight jolted me—doctor and dog locked in a clash neither deserved. My chest tightened, a painful throb of divided loyalty. Duke was trying to protect us, doing what dogs do, and Glenda was trying to save Jamie's life. Both were right in their own ways, and I was caught in the middle.

"Oh, Glenda," I stammered, rushing forward, my words tumbling, inadequate. My heart tore in two—aching for the doctor whose patience was being tested by a creature that should never have been in the medical tent to begin with, and aching just as fiercely for the little companion who only wanted to shield me from threat.

I scooped Duke up quickly, his body still taut with fight, his small chest heaving against mine. I held him tight, protective, desperate to shield him from further conflict. His eyes, wide and still smouldering with defiance, searched mine as though asking why I hadn't let him do what he believed he must.

I'm sorry, boy. I know you don't understand.

"Back away, Luke." Glenda's words cracked across the air, her glare direct, unflinching. The command brooked no space for negotiation. Her authority pressed down on me, and for once, I didn't resist.

She was right. Duke was a liability here, no matter how pure his intentions. And I—with my raw emotions and my desperate need to be near Jamie—was probably not much better.

"I'll lock him out," I murmured, my voice soft, defeated, laced with regret that seeped into every syllable. My steps were heavy as I retreated, each one weighted with the ache of leaving Jamie again. Duke squirmed in my arms, but I held him firmly, carrying him out into the light beyond the canvas.

Securing him with a canopy rope from the half-built tent felt like punishment—both for him and for me. As I tied the knot, my chest clenched with guilt. It felt like fastening down a part of my heart, binding loyalty and love to the ground where it could no longer reach me.

Necessary, yes. But cruel all the same.

Duke whined as I stepped back, his dark eyes following me with an expression of betrayal that cut deeper than it should have. Henri sat beside him, quiet and confused, and I gave them both a quick scratch behind the ears.

"Stay," I said, the word hollow. "I'll be back.”

The atmosphere inside the tent was taut, charged with urgency and unspoken strain, when I slipped back in. Every breath seemed to press against the canvas walls, thick with tension. The air felt different—denser, as though my very presence might disturb the fragile equilibrium Glenda was working so hard to hold together.

Jamie lay quieter now, the fury drained from him by exhaustion or pain or both. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow but steady. The makeshift bandage on his chest was dark with what I assumed was the infection she'd drained, but the swelling looked... less. Less angry. Less like it was consuming him from within.

I think he is alright. Paul's words echoed back to me, and for the first time, I let myself believe they might be true.

"Luke," Glenda called, her tone cutting through the clamour of my thoughts. Her voice was measured, composed, but carried an unmistakable seriousness that pulled me instantly to attention. "Listen carefully. I need you to return to the Doctor's Practice and get me a few supplies."

Her words anchored me, tethering me to a purpose I could hold onto. For the first time in what felt like hours, I had direction. No more standing uselessly on the edges, watching Jamie's suffering with my hands bound by helplessness. Here was something I could do—something tangible, necessary.

"Sure. What do you need?" I answered quickly, leaning into the chance to be of service. My chest tightened with relief at the possibility of action, of mending even a small thread of this unravelling situation.

"I need..." she began, her voice faltering for the briefest instant as though the weight of everything pressed down at once. But she caught herself, steadied, and shifted. "Do you have any paper and pen?"

The request, so simple, so ordinary, pierced the heaviness. My lips twitched into a half-smile despite the ache in my chest. "Actually, we do," I said, the words carrying a faint spark of relief.

For once, I had something she required—not just an apology for what we lacked, but an answer. A small victory, yes, but in that moment it felt significant. The endless parade of inadequacy, of failing to provide what was needed, had momentarily paused.

I crossed the dim interior with renewed purpose, pushing aside scattered belongings in search of the items. My fingers closed around the pen and a battered pad of paper.

"Here," I said, extending them towards her. My hands shook slightly, not from weakness, but from the strange mixture of gratitude and urgency coursing through me.

Glenda accepted them with a nod, her lips lifting into a brief, tired smile. "Thanks," she said, her voice soft, her gratitude pared down to its essence. It wasn't elaborate, but it didn't need to be. In her tone I heard the sincerity, and it landed deeply, warming a part of me I hadn't realised was freezing.

As I watched Glenda, her brow pinched into sharp lines of focus, a coil of unease tightened in my stomach. Each hurried stroke of her pen scratched into the silence with a purpose that both reassured and unsettled me. There was no hesitation in her movements, no second-guessing. Every flick of her wrist was controlled, deliberate—her entire being centred on the task.

Her composure was almost unbearable to witness. She carried pain and pressure without letting them interfere, her strength folding neatly into the moment. And it was here, in the dim air of the tent, that my thoughts shifted against my will—flashing from her resilience to Jamie's weakness, his cry still echoing in my bones.

"A lot of this you can actually find in my examination room," Glenda said, her voice steady, clear, carrying no trace of the urgency etched across her face. She extended the list towards me, her hand unwavering despite everything.

I crouched beside her, my fingers brushing against the page as I took it. The paper felt heavier than it should, its weight pressing into my palm like a physical echo of the responsibility it carried.

My eyes scanned the column of items, and my stomach dropped.

Shit.

That was a very long list. Far longer than I had hoped. Antibiotics, antiseptic, sterile gauze, surgical tape, syringes, IV supplies, pain medication, sutures... the words blurred and multiplied as I tried to take them all in. Some I recognised from first aid kits. Others sounded like the contents of a hospital pharmacy.

Anxiety curled tight inside me, gnawing at the edges of my resolve. The scale of it was daunting—more than an errand, it was an expedition. A raid. A test I wasn't certain I could pass.

How was I supposed to gather all of this without being caught? Without raising suspicions at the practice? Without someone noticing that Dr. De Bruyn's examination room had been stripped of its supplies?

"The rest," Glenda continued, her voice pulling me back from the spiral, "The ones with the asterisks, you'll have to take from the shared supply room."

Her words jolted me. My chest constricted, mind catching on the implications.

What the hell is Glenda thinking?

Taking from her own room was one thing, a bending of the rules that could perhaps be explained away later. But taking from the shared stores—that was theft. That was crossing a line with consequences far beyond us. Other doctors relied on those supplies. Other patients needed them.

Ethical boundaries blurred before my eyes, the ground shifting beneath me. This was taking medicine that might be needed by someone else, someone who might suffer because of what I'd done.

And yet...

Jamie. Jamie needed these supplies. Jamie would die without them.

"I'm sorry, Luke, but we are going to need it all," Glenda said firmly. There was apology in her voice, yes, but beneath it a steel that would not yield. She knew what she was asking, and she asked it anyway.

She wasn't blind to the ethics. She was simply making a choice—Jamie's life over the abstraction of shared resources, survival over rules. It was the same calculation I'd been making all day, all week, perhaps all my life. The greater good was a luxury for people who weren't watching the person they loved bleed out in a tent.

I nodded, the gesture slow, reluctant, but inevitable. Our need outweighed the risks; the reality pressed down so heavily that there was no other option. "I'll be quick. I promise." The words tumbled out of me, not just assurance but a vow—my attempt to steady the balance between fear and resolve.

"Luke." Her voice halted me, sharp enough to cut through my rush. Her hand gripped my arm, her fingers strong despite the strain she carried. The look in her eyes froze me in place—intense, unflinching, a force that demanded I listen.

"Be careful."

The command, quiet as it was, resonated deeply. Not just instruction, but concern. Not just professionalism, but something human, something that recognised the stakes for all of us. She was sending me back to a place that had been compromised, back to a world where secret organisations were hunting for people exactly like us. One wrong move, one unfortunate encounter, and I might not return at all.

I felt my face tighten, my chest constrict. Fear and determination crashed against one another inside me, tangled with responsibility that was suddenly all too real. Her words rang with a gravity I couldn't dismiss.

I gave a final nod, silent but binding, an unspoken promise that I would heed her warning. Then I turned, the flap of the tent falling closed behind me.

The late afternoon air met me with its warmth—the sky beginning to shift toward the golden hues of approaching evening, the dust settling in soft swirls around my feet. Duke barked from where he was tied, straining against the rope, wanting to follow. Henri watched with quiet concern.

I paused to look at them, these loyal creatures who had crossed dimensions with me, who had no idea what was happening but trusted me anyway.

"I'll be back," I told them, though the words felt hollow. "I promise."

Then I turned toward the Drop Zone, toward the Portal that would take me back to Hobart, back to danger, back to the task that might determine whether Jamie lived or died.

I stepped into the unknown burdened with more than a list of supplies. I carried with me the weight of all our survival, and the fragile thread of hope that still bound me to Jamie's life.