The Two-Week Trip

"They weren't kidnapped. They were recruited. Someone convinced them to thank the person holding the trapdoor open."

The commotion had reached me through the caravan's thin walls like distant thunder — raised voices, the crunch of boots on sand, the particular cadence of confusion that accompanied every new arrival in Clivilius.

I hadn't moved.

Instead, I'd stayed precisely where I was, stretched across the mattress with Henri curled against my side, listening to the sounds of whatever drama was unfolding outside and making the conscious decision to have absolutely no part in it. My leg throbbed in agreement, the wound reminding me that it hadn't finished healing, that every unnecessary movement was an invitation for setbacks I couldn't afford.

But that was only part of the truth.

The other part — the part I didn't want to examine too closely — was that I couldn't face people right now. Not Chris, not Karen, not Paul with his relentless optimism and his endless supply of problems that needed solving. The caravan had become my shell, my excuse, my hiding place from a world that seemed determined to demand more of me than I had left to give.

The voices had faded eventually, settling into the background murmur of camp life, and I'd almost convinced myself that I could stay here indefinitely. That the walls around me were protection rather than prison.

Then the smell found me.

Chilli. The unmistakable aroma of spiced meat and beans, of something warm and substantial being cooked over an open flame. It slithered through the small window I'd left cracked open for ventilation, wrapping around my brain and squeezing until my stomach responded with a growl so loud it startled Henri awake.

When had I last eaten? The slop Chris had prepared felt like days ago. Time had become slippery since my arrival, measured in traumas rather than meals, and somewhere in the chaos I'd forgotten that bodies required fuel to keep functioning.

The hunger had become a living thing, gnawing at my insides with teeth sharper than any shadow panther's.

"I guess you're hungry too?" I said to Henri, ruffling his furry head with fingers that felt disconnected from my body.

His small eyes met mine, tail wagging in response — a silent plea that cut through all my self-imposed isolation. Henri didn't care about my guilt or my fears or my desperate need to avoid the people beyond these walls. Henri cared about food, and companionship, and the simple rhythms of survival that I'd been neglecting.

"Come on then, let's feed you."

Henri launched himself off the bed with more energy than I'd seen from him all day, his paws hitting the floor with eager thuds. I reached into the bottom cupboard where I'd stored his supplies, and pulled the tin lid open.

The rich aroma of chunky meat and vegetables smothered in gravy filled the caravan, and my mouth actually watered.

"Even this smells appetising," I chuckled, scooping generous spoonfuls into Henri's bowl. "I must be starving."

A small dollop of gravy had settled at the end of my pinky, and I caught myself before instinctively licking it clean. That felt like a line I shouldn't cross, though at this point I wasn't entirely sure why.

Henri devoured his meal within minutes, tail wagging with the satisfaction of a creature whose needs were simple and easily met. I envied him that. Envied the straightforward transaction between hunger and food, without all the complications that came with being human and damaged and trapped in a dimension that seemed designed to break you.

"I know you don't like it," I said, gathering him into my arms as we prepared to leave the caravan. "But you can't stay in your bed all day anymore."

The words applied to both of us, really. But saying them to Henri was easier than admitting I was talking to myself.

The campfire had drawn the camp's population into its orbit, and I approached with the wariness of prey entering a clearing.

My eyes scanned automatically for Chris, for Karen, for any of the faces that carried complications I wasn't ready to navigate. Chris was there — I spotted him on the far side of the fire, his attention fixed on something Karen was saying, his body angled away from the main gathering. I could work with that. Enough distance to avoid conversation, enough people between us to justify not making eye contact.

Paul materialised at my elbow before I'd fully registered his approach, a bowl already extended toward me like an offering.

"Thanks, Paul," I managed, accepting the chilli. "Looks delicious."

"It's my specialty. Enjoy!"

He was already pivoting away, but something in his expression gave me pause. There was a tightness around his eyes, a strain in the set of his shoulders that I'd learned to recognise as Paul carrying a problem he hadn't figured out how to solve yet.

The newcomers became apparent a moment later — a man and woman seated on folding chairs near the fire, their posture radiating something I couldn't immediately identify. Not the shell-shocked confusion I'd seen in other arrivals. Not the desperate fear that had marked my own first hours here.

Impatience, I realised after a moment. They looked impatient. Like travellers whose connecting flight had been delayed.

"Kain, this is Grant and Sarah Ironbach," Paul said, his voice carrying that particular flatness of someone making introductions he'd rather not make. "They arrived this afternoon."

Grant looked up from a conversation he'd been having with his sister, his expression shifting into something approaching professional courtesy. He was mid-thirties, maybe, with the weathered tan of someone who spent his life outdoors and the confident bearing of someone accustomed to being in charge. His sister sat beside him, younger by a few years, her long hair catching the firelight as she turned to assess me with sharp, evaluating eyes.

"G'day," Grant said, nodding in my direction. "You're another one of Paul's people, then?"

Paul's people. The phrasing struck me as odd, but I let it pass. "Something like that. I'm Kain."

"Grant runs Bonorong Wildlife Sanctuary," Paul added, and there was something in his tone — a weight, a warning — that made my attention sharpen. "Sarah's the Assistant Director. They're here to... assess the area."

"Assess?" I lowered myself onto an empty crate, settling Henri beside me. The word felt wrong in this context, too clinical, too purposeful for a place that existed primarily to kill you.

"For the sanctuary project," Sarah said, and her voice carried the crisp efficiency of someone accustomed to managing complex operations. "We're doing the initial site evaluation. Should take us a week or two, and then we'll be heading back to put together our formal recommendations."

I blinked at her, certain I'd misheard. "Sorry — heading back where?"

"To Bonorong," Grant said, as if the answer were obvious. "We can't be away too long. The sanctuary doesn't run itself, and we've got a rehabilitation release scheduled for next month that needs oversight."

The chilli in my bowl had stopped existing. The fire had stopped crackling. The entire world had narrowed to this impossible conversation, these impossible words coming from people who apparently believed they were on a business trip.

They think they're going home.

The realisation landed like a punch to the stomach. Grant and Sarah Ironbach weren't confused or disoriented. They weren't grappling with the shock of forced displacement. They were planning their return, discussing schedules and timelines as if the portal were a revolving door they could walk back through whenever they pleased.

"The Guardian who brought us — Brad, was it? — he mentioned you'd all been here a few days already," Sarah continued, apparently oblivious to my silence. "Setting up the base camp, getting the lay of the land. Smart to establish infrastructure before bringing in the assessment team."

"Brad," I repeated, my voice hollow.

"Bit odd that he disappeared so quickly after we arrived," Grant added, a note of irritation creeping into his tone. "Handed us off to Paul here and vanished. Said he had 'other Guardian duties' to attend to." He made air quotes around the phrase, his expression suggesting he found the excuse inadequate. "Would've been nice to get a proper briefing first."

Paul's jaw had tightened. His eyes met mine for a fraction of a second, and in that glance I read everything he couldn't say aloud: They don't know. They have no idea. And I don't know how to tell them.

"The conditions here are rougher than we expected," Sarah was saying, her gaze sweeping across the camp with the critical eye of someone evaluating real estate. "Melanie's briefings mentioned challenging terrain, but this is something else entirely. Still, nothing we can't work with. Grant and I have done assessments in some pretty remote locations."

"Melanie?" The name emerged before I could stop it.

"Our main contact," Grant explained. "She's the one who first approached us about the project. Showed us the portal technology, explained the basics of how the Guardians operate." He shrugged, as if inter-dimensional travel were just another logistics challenge to be managed. "Took some convincing at first, obviously. Not every day someone tells you parallel dimensions exist. But once we saw it with our own eyes..."

"You've seen portals before," I said slowly, pieces clicking into place. "Before today."

"Several times. Melanie was very thorough in her preparation. She wanted to make sure we understood what we were signing up for." Sarah's expression softened slightly. "We appreciate the opportunity, honestly. The chance to establish a wildlife sanctuary in an entirely new ecosystem? That's the kind of project conservationists dream about."

The kind of project conservationists dream about.

I stared at her, at both of them, and felt something cold settling in my chest. They weren't naive. They weren't stupid. They'd done their due diligence, asked their questions, evaluated the risks as they understood them. They'd made an informed decision to participate in what they believed was a two-week assessment trip.

And every single thing they'd been told was a lie.

Not by Luke — I was beginning to understand that Luke had stumbled into something already in motion, had accidentally become "Brad" through circumstances I couldn't quite piece together. But someone named Melanie had spent weeks or months cultivating these people, showing them just enough truth to make the lies credible, preparing them for a journey they didn't understand was permanent.

Grant and Sarah Ironbach hadn't been kidnapped. They'd been recruited.

The distinction shouldn't have mattered, but somehow it made everything worse.

"The shadow panthers are a concern, obviously," Grant was saying, apparently having moved on to practical matters while I'd been drowning in implications. "We saw the head on the stake coming in. Impressive specimen, but worrying from a safety standpoint. Any apex predator poses challenges for sanctuary development."

"They killed one of the dogs," I heard myself say. "Few nights ago. Almost killed me."

Sarah's expression shifted, genuine concern flickering across her features. "We heard. Paul mentioned your leg. How's it healing?"

"Slowly."

"You should have a doctor look at it properly once we're back on Earth," Grant suggested, his tone carrying the easy confidence of someone offering practical advice. "Don't want to risk infection in conditions like these. I've seen wounds go septic in remote locations — it's not something to take chances with."

Once we're back on Earth.

The words hung in the air between us, and I watched Grant's face for any sign that he understood what he was saying. There was none. He genuinely believed that returning to Earth was an option, that this was a temporary posting, that his life at Bonorong was waiting for him exactly as he'd left it.

My leg chose that moment to remind me it existed — a sharp throb that radiated up through my calf and settled behind my knee. I winced, the expression genuine even if the timing was convenient.

"Speaking of the leg," I said, pushing myself upright. "I should probably rest it. Long day tomorrow."

"Of course." Sarah nodded, her professional demeanour softening slightly. "We'll have plenty of time to talk over the next couple of weeks. Get some sleep."

The next couple of weeks.

I managed something that might have passed for a smile, scooped Henri into my arms, and turned away from the fire before my face could betray me.

Paul fell into step beside me as I moved toward my caravan, his voice pitched low enough that it wouldn't carry back to the Ironbachs.

"You worked it out," he said. Not a question.

"They think they're going home."

"In one to two weeks." His laugh was short, humourless. "Luke dropped them on me and vanished. 'Guardian duties,' apparently."

"Someone named Melanie recruited them. Showed them portals, explained the technology. They've been planning this for weeks." I didn't slow my pace, didn't look at him. "This wasn't an accident. Someone set them up deliberately."

"I know." Paul's sigh carried the weight of problems he had no idea how to solve. "The question is what we do about it."

"How long before they figure it out themselves?"

"A few days. A week, maybe." He glanced back toward the fire, where Grant and Sarah had resumed their conversation, their body language relaxed, unsuspecting. "They're smart. They'll notice when nobody mentions the return trip."

We'd reached my caravan. I paused at the door, Henri shifting in my arms, and finally turned to face Paul properly.

"Are you going to tell them?"

The question sat between us, ugly and necessary.

Paul's expression was unreadable in the dim light. "Someone has to. Eventually."

"But not tonight."

"No." He shook his head slowly. "Not tonight."

There was nothing else to say. Paul nodded once, a gesture that managed to convey exhaustion and resignation and the grim determination that seemed to be his default setting these days. Then he turned and walked back toward the fire, toward the newcomers who still believed their lives were waiting for them on the other side of a portal that only opened one way.

I watched him go for a moment before stepping inside the caravan and pulling the door shut behind me.

The lamp cast familiar shadows across the walls as I settled Henri onto his bed and lowered myself onto the mattress. My leg throbbed in time with my heartbeat, a rhythm of pain I was learning to ignore.

Grant and Sarah Ironbach. Wildlife sanctuary directors. Conservation experts. People who'd dedicated their lives to protecting vulnerable creatures from threats they couldn't defend against themselves.

Now they were the vulnerable ones. And the people who should have protected them — the Guardians, the ones with the keys and the knowledge and the power to move between worlds — had used them instead. Had built an elaborate fiction and watched them walk into it willingly, gratefully, believing they were serving a greater purpose.

Different protocol for outbound travel, Sarah had said. Security reasons.

The lie was almost elegant in its simplicity. Answer the question before it's asked. Provide an explanation that sounds plausible enough to satisfy curiosity without inviting deeper scrutiny. Let them fill in the gaps with their own assumptions, their own trust in the system they believed they understood.

Somewhere out there, a woman named Melanie had spent weeks cultivating that trust. Had shown them wonders and made promises and carefully, systematically prepared them for a journey she knew they'd never return from.

I wondered if she'd lost sleep over it. Wondered if she'd hesitated, even once, before condemning two people to exile in a dimension that wanted to eat them.

Probably not.

The Guardians I'd encountered didn't seem like the type to let conscience interfere with their plans.

Henri had curled into a ball on his bed, his breathing already slowing toward sleep. I envied him that — the ability to close his eyes and drift away from a world that made no sense, to escape into dreams that couldn't possibly be worse than waking life.

I reached for the lamp, then stopped.

The light stayed on.

Outside, the camp was settling into its evening routines. I could hear voices — Grant's, Sarah's, others joining the conversation around the fire. They were probably discussing tomorrow's assessment, mapping out survey routes, making plans for a future that would never arrive.

In a few days, those plans would start to unravel. The questions would begin. The silence around the topic of returning home would become impossible to ignore.

And then the truth would come out, one way or another.

I lay back on the mattress, staring at the ceiling, and tried to imagine what that moment would look like. Tried to picture Grant's face when he finally understood that Bonorong was gone. Sarah's expression when she realised every promise Melanie had made was a lie.

The thought made something twist in my chest.

They were strangers. I'd known them for less than an hour. Their fate shouldn't have mattered to me more than my own survival, my own problems, my own desperate hope of finding a way back to Brianne.

But it did.

Because I'd been them, three days ago. Had stumbled through a portal believing I understood what was happening, only to have reality rearrange itself into something unrecognisable. Had lost everything — my life, my future, my sense of who I was — in the space between one heartbeat and the next.

Grant and Sarah just didn't know it yet.

They were still standing on the edge of the cliff, admiring the view, completely unaware that the ground beneath their feet had already crumbled away.

The fall was coming.

And there wasn't a damn thing any of us could do to stop it.