The Naked Man

“In triage, there’s no protocol for walking in on a half-dressed patient. You just apologise, retreat, and hope the dogs aren’t judging you too.”

Unzipping the tent with the intention of checking on Jamie, I was wholly unprepared for the sight that greeted me. The flap peeled back with a faint rasp, and in the dim light, I was struck by the full, unfiltered view of Jamie—completely naked, mid-change, his back to me as he fumbled hurriedly for his clothes. The image burned into my mind in an instant: pale skin, solid strength, vulnerability laid bare in more ways than one. I gasped, a sharp intake of breath betraying my shock, and snapped my eyes shut. "Oh, I'm so sorry," I blurted, my voice high and panicked, the words tumbling out before I could gather any composure.

The tent flap fell closed behind me, a soft thump as I stepped aside, flustered and mortified. I pressed a hand to my forehead, feeling the tell-tale warmth of rising colour creep into my cheeks. For someone trained to stay composed under pressure, I felt absurdly unprepared for the scenario I’d just walked into.

Then, through the canvas, came the low sound of Jamie’s chuckle—light, genuine, and entirely unbothered.

The tension in my shoulders eased a notch. Of course he’d find it funny. His easy reaction offered a sliver of comfort, a way out of the pit of awkwardness I’d just tumbled into.

"I didn't expect you to be up and moving so soon," I managed, my voice emerging with a blend of surprise and restrained relief. I kept my gaze firmly fixed ahead, not daring to risk a glance behind me. It was a fragile attempt to salvage some dignity, even if the moment had already slipped beyond reclaiming.

The flap stirred again, and Jamie’s head poked through, an amused grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. His expression was warm, untroubled, and for the first time, I noted a flush of healthy colour returning to his cheeks.

"It's okay," he said casually, his tone carrying the grace of someone thoroughly entertained. That he could laugh at this—at me—was oddly comforting. It was a sign of strength, of healing. And of Jamie being… Jamie.

Before I could respond, Duke charged out from behind him, bursting from the tent like a furry cannonball. His energy was irrepressible, a blur of movement as he plunged nose-first into the dust with enthusiastic purpose, tail high and wagging. Whatever grand mission he was on, it seemed entirely incompatible with human embarrassment or solemnity.

Henri lingered more cautiously at the tent’s edge, his brown eyes flicking between Jamie and the open world beyond. It wasn’t until Jamie gave him a soft nudge—barely more than a whisper of encouragement—that Henri bounded forward after Duke, kicking up puffs of dust in his wake.

Watching the two dogs tumble and nose about with unfiltered enthusiasm, the tightness in my chest began to ease. In their carefree play, there was something grounding—something unaffected by wounds, or grief, or awkward morning encounters. Just motion, instinct, and curiosity.

It was a small grace in the midst of everything. A reminder that, despite the surreal vastness of Clivilius, life still carried on—in tail wags and paw prints, in laughter that didn’t sting, and in the growing resilience of those of us learning, however clumsily, to survive.

Jamie, now more suitably attired in boardshorts and a t-shirt, stepped into the morning light, his appearance a visual marker of resilience. The way he moved, still a little tentative but upright and steady, seemed to speak not just of physical recovery but of a quiet defiance—a refusal to be undone by the ordeal of the past day.

"How are you feeling this morning?" I asked, stepping slightly closer, my eyes scanning him not just as a doctor assessing her patient, but as someone quietly hoping for signs of strength in a place where everything else felt so fragile.

"Much better. My chest doesn't feel nearly as sore," he said, lifting his arms in a wide arc above his head. The motion was slow but smooth, and the faint grin that followed brought a small, almost imperceptible exhale of relief from me.

"That's good news," I replied, my tone calm but warm. A thread of cautious optimism ran beneath the words. I knew we weren’t out of the woods yet, but even the smallest gains here felt monumental.

Jamie glanced down at Duke, who stood at his heel, tail swaying. "I was about to go and take Duke for a walk. We've both been rather cooped up the last twenty-four hours. I think it'll do us both some good."

"I agree," I said, then added quickly, not wanting to let the moment slip away, "But I need to change your dressing before you go."

"Fine," Jamie said with a sigh of reluctant surrender, tugging his shirt over his head with a casualness that suggested he’d already resigned himself to the process.

As I stepped forward and peeled away the dressing, I allowed myself to feel just a hint of reassurance. The skin beneath, though still angry and tender-looking, had begun to scab over cleanly. No fresh swelling. No sign of infection. A little less raw.

"It is looking much better," I said, and my voice betrayed a note of genuine relief. Jamie caught it and gave me a smile—not one of bravado, but something quieter, more real.

The wind stirred around us, lifting the edges of his discarded shirt on the ground. I tucked a stray hair behind my ear and glanced towards the tent.

"Why don't you lay back down while I grab some fresh dressings from the supply tent," I suggested, practical as ever. The words made perfect sense, but even as I said them, I sensed the tension tighten again in his shoulders.

Jamie turned and glanced over his shoulder at the tent, as if it had become a cage. “Really?” he asked, voice flat, eyes betraying how deeply he disliked the idea.

I understood. After finally being out in the morning light—feeling something close to freedom again—the idea of retreating into that confined, dusty space must have felt like punishment.

"Just for five minutes," I urged, softening my tone. I gestured helplessly around us. "If we had a chair, I’d say you could sit, but we don’t."

Jamie’s frown deepened.

“Yet,” I amended quickly. “We don’t have a chair, yet.”

He gave a small, begrudging huff. “Fine.” His voice was a mixture of fatigue and muted defiance, but he turned and began walking back to the tent.

As I watched him go, the loose rhythm of his gait and the stiff set of his shoulders told a fuller story than his words. This wasn’t just about discomfort or inconvenience. It was about agency, about clawing back small pieces of control in a world that had stripped everything familiar away. And still—we pushed forward.

Gathering the fresh dressings and other medical supplies needed for Jamie’s care felt like a small but significant mission. Each item I selected—gauze pads, antiseptic wipes, clean bandages—was handled with quiet deliberation, as though the act itself were a ritual to steady my thoughts. The supply tent, still relatively new and barely furnished, had quickly taken on the role of my sanctuary of order. Inside, the rows of essentials were neatly categorised, thanks to an effort born as much from necessity as from my need for control in a world that offered very little of it.

Returning to the open air with my arms full, the light breeze caught at the edges of my sleeves and lifted a fine spray of dust from the ground. I moved carefully, conscious of the preciousness of every single item in my arms, knowing there were no back-ups, no replacements, no pharmacy just down the road.

As I approached the main camp again, something unexpected caught my eye—Henri, ears pricked forward, was padding cautiously toward Paul. The dog’s gait was slow and deliberate, nose twitching with curiosity as he neared the place where Paul lay sprawled, still wrapped in sleep. Paul’s gentle snoring drifted on the breeze, rhythmic and unbothered, a soft percussion to the quiet of the morning.

The scene brought a soft chuckle from me before I could stop it. There was something almost theatrical about the way Henri crept forward, as if debating whether to initiate contact or retreat. I imagined that twitching nose getting a little too close, a cold nudge to Paul’s cheek, perhaps even a startled snort or muttered curse in response.

It’s only a matter of time, I mused to myself, a small smile tugging at the corners of my lips. The thought wasn't only about the impending comedic moment sure to unfold—though I half-hoped to see it—it was about everything. This fragile equilibrium we’d managed to create, stitched together with patience, routine, and sheer willpower, was always moments away from being disrupted. The laughter, the discomfort, the fear—it all came in cycles now. Moments of peace were never permanent, only borrowed.

And yet, in watching Henri's cautious curiosity, something inside me softened. There was a comfort in his simplicity, in the way animals seemed to adjust without questioning. He wasn't concerned about what Clivilius was or where the stars had gone—he was just curious about the sleeping man who’d offered him a home.

The innocence of it grounded me. Even here, in this strange new world, there were still echoes of Earth—of pets and people, of small gestures and silent companionship. These were the pieces of humanity that had travelled with us, unspoken but vital.

Cradling the supplies to my chest, I took one last look at Henri and Paul, their quiet moment frozen in time, and felt a flicker of something not unlike hope. We might be impossibly far from everything we knew, but we hadn’t lost everything. Not yet.

As I gently dabbed away the last of the water from Jamie’s chest, the warmth of the cloth in my hand contrasted with the coolness of the morning air that filtered into the tent. My fingers moved with precision, trained by habit and guided by care, yet my eyes kept returning to the site of the wound—not out of caution this time, but curiosity. The transformation was startling. The angry red flush that had once radiated across his skin had dulled, the swelling reduced, and the worst of the blistering had receded to patches that now seemed more irritated than truly damaged.

“This really is looking much better already,” I remarked, a note of genuine surprise escaping my lips before I could temper it. I leaned in slightly to see more clearly, brushing a curl of hair from my face with the back of my hand. “Your burns look superficial. Most of the damage appears to have been from the splinter’s infection.”

As I said the words aloud, they seemed to hang in the space between us, too remarkable to ignore. My brow drew together in contemplation. The improvement was almost... unnatural.

It wasn’t just that Jamie looked better—it was the speed at which he’d turned a corner. I had seen burns like this before, infections that travelled quickly through the tissue, stubborn and slow to heal even with prompt treatment. But here he was, less than a full day since I’d first examined him, and already his chest bore the signs of healthy repair. The skin was knitting, the inflammation receding at a rate that defied what I would have expected on Earth.

And then a second thought struck me—more unsettling than the first.

Which, now that I think of it, the damage also seemed to have progressed quite rapidly considering how severe it had become in less than twenty-four hours.

The pieces didn’t fit. Both the decline and the recovery were too swift, too dramatic.

The thought lingered like a shadow at the edge of my mind, unease prickling beneath the surface. Is there something else going on here…?

I didn’t voice the question, but its presence was loud enough within me. Clivilius was still a mystery, and the more time I spent here, the more I realised how little I truly understood about it. Could something in the planet’s ecosystem—its bacteria, its atmosphere, its energy—be accelerating biological processes in ways we’d never encountered before? Or was Jamie simply having a unique physiological response?

My mind catalogued possibilities: alien microorganisms, an altered immune response, the planet’s unique radiation levels… I couldn’t know yet. But the implications for all of us were potentially enormous.

I would need to monitor him closely. Not just for complications, but for patterns. If Jamie’s body was responding this way to injury, then others might too. Or they might not. That uncertainty was its own kind of danger.

Jamie’s voice, calm and clear, tugged me gently back from the spiral of speculation.

“I really don’t feel much pain now at all,” he assured me.

I searched his face, noting the relaxed posture, the absence of tension around his eyes and jaw. He wasn’t lying, and that brought a quiet wave of relief.

Continuing my examination, I pressed lightly along the healed edges of the wound, feeling for any lingering signs of infection. “And you’ve had no complaints with any upper body movements?” I asked, smoothing the final piece of gauze over the burn and securing it neatly with a strip of medical tape.

“None,” Jamie said with a grin, his smile wide and unexpectedly boyish, the kind that made you forget for a moment the grim reality we all inhabited.

“That’s great news,” I said, the words leaving me with a small, genuine smile of my own. I gave him a light tap on the shoulder, a touch that was part reassurance, part encouragement.

As Jamie made a swift motion to rise, his energy unmistakably geared toward freedom and fresh air, I could sense his eagerness to get going.

"But," I intervened gently, extending my palm in front of him—a small, steady gesture to stay his momentum. My tone, though soft, left no room for negotiation. "I still need you to take another couple of antibiotic capsules."

Jamie’s shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly as he released a huff—a perfect blend of frustration and resignation. It was a familiar resistance, not born of stubbornness but of a desire to reclaim control over his own body, his own choices. I recognised it for what it was: a subtle rebellion against vulnerability. Still, the necessity of the moment demanded persistence.

"You’ll need to take several daily for the next few days to make sure it doesn’t get reinfected," I continued, ensuring my words were calm but clear. I needed him to understand that this wasn’t just another formality. The medication was a non-negotiable piece of his recovery. One misstep now, one forgotten dose, and everything we’d achieved could unravel.

Without further complaint, Jamie plucked the capsules from my outstretched hand and knocked them back with a single gulp of water. "Thanks," he muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The word was low, almost begrudging, but I caught the flicker of something else in his tone—appreciation, perhaps, faint but real.

As he moved to finish dressing, I studied him in silence. There was a slight stiffness in his left shoulder, a subtle favouring of that side as he pulled his shirt down over his torso. I made a mental note of it. Perhaps later, I could offer a gentle massage to loosen the joint—something to ease the tension and nudge his body further along the path to full recovery.

"You’re good to go," I said at last, giving him a brief, encouraging pat between the shoulder blades. It was a professional gesture, yes, but also something more—a wordless affirmation of his strength, and of mine.

Then, with a slight shift in tone, I added the necessary caveat. "But don’t go too far. And the moment you start to feel tired or any dizziness, you need to stop and rest. Then as soon as you are able, make your way back to camp."

Jamie didn’t argue. His nod of acknowledgment was crisp and wordless, exactly what I’d expected. He knew the rules, and for once, he seemed willing to play by them.

"I’ll go downstream," he said as we stepped out into the brightening morning, his voice lifted by a note of anticipation. "There’s a lagoon just around the bend. I’ll take Duke with me, he’ll love it."

My eyes followed his to the eager form of the dog, already bouncing with excitement at the sound of his name. But my gaze soon drifted to the quieter of the pair, lingering near the fire with tentative steps and uncertain ears.

"And Henri?" I asked, unable to suppress the slight uptick of concern in my voice.

Jamie followed my line of sight, catching the image of the little dog gingerly testing the dusty ground as if it might dissolve beneath him. His laugh was soft, rueful. "I don’t think Henri’s going to make it too far," he said, watching the dog with a fond shake of his head.

"I’ll keep an eye on him," I offered, the decision made almost without thought. It wasn’t just a practical choice—it was instinct. This place was strange, and we were strangers in it. We needed to look out for each other, all of us, even the smallest and furriest. Especially them.

As Jamie called Duke to his side and the two of them began to make their way towards the river bend, I stood in place for a while longer, watching their figures grow smaller against the open landscape. There was something uplifting in their stride, in the way Duke bounded ahead with joyful abandon, nose to the ground, tail high. Even Jamie, despite the bruises and bandages, walked with a kind of quiet resolve.

When they disappeared from sight, I turned back toward camp. The sudden stillness left a ringing in my ears—until my stomach, with impeccable timing, made its own contribution to the morning. A loud, unmistakable gurgle.

I let out a quiet laugh, more breath than sound, and murmured to no one in particular, "Time for breakfast."

Even here, even now, some things remained simple. Hunger. Healing. The slow rebuild of normality in a place that was anything but.