The Weight of the Jar

“There’s a moment when you stop asking if you’ve lost your way—and start wondering why the road ever mattered.”

“Karen!” Chris's voice cut through my reverie, warm and inviting as it wrapped around the hum of overlapping conversations. He gestured me over with an enthusiastic wave, his expression alight with that signature spark of inspiration. “We were just discussing the plans for the wildlife sanctuary. Grant and Sarah have some incredible ideas.”

I summoned a smile, willing it into place like armour, the muscles of my face stiff with effort. My fingers curled protectively around the jar of spiderlings as if their restless scuttling could somehow steady me.

“That's wonderful,” I replied, aiming for cheerful, but even to my own ears, the words rang hollow, as brittle as dry leaves.

Yes, the plans were impressive—grand in scope, thoughtful in their execution. I had pored over them late last night by torchlight, tracing the diagrams with weary fingers, acknowledging the vision and brilliance behind them. But still, there was a prickling in my chest that refused to be soothed, a persistent whisper that something else needed tending first.

“And what happened to this enclosure for Vincent that you were supposed to be building?” I asked.

Chris’s confident smile faltered, and to his credit, he didn’t attempt to bluster. His eyes darted away, guilt colouring his cheeks as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I, ah… delegated. Nial and Adrian were going to handle it.”

The admission caught me off guard, and the fire behind my question flickered. I folded my arms, chastened by the realisation that I'd momentarily forgotten what Adrian must be going through. It was easy to forget, in the rush of tasks and the endless list of emergencies, that he was brand new to all of this—a stranger hurled into Clivilius by a force none of us truly understood, still reeling from the disorientation of forced exile.

And yet, he wasn’t entirely alone. It helped—some small mercy—that he already knew Nial from their shared construction circles in Hobart. That thin thread of familiarity was all he had to anchor himself here, and by all accounts, it was the only thing holding his nerves together.

I hadn't spoken to Adrian directly yet, but I’d heard the quiet discussions that passed through the camp like smoke through reeds. He was grieving. His wife. His two teenage daughters. A whole life torn away and replaced with this—this strange, arid place of unfamiliar rules and missing exits.

It reminded me, with sudden clarity, of how I had felt in my first few days. But unlike Adrian, I’d had Chris. I’d had purpose. He had only loss.

I glanced towards the south end of camp where a cluster of voices hinted at hammering, the faint sound of construction underway. Perhaps Nial and Adrian were already at it. Perhaps the work would serve as a lifeline—something to do with his hands, some small act of control in a world that had offered him none.

Still clutching the jar, I exhaled slowly and looked back at Chris. “Just… don’t forget what it’s like to land here for the first time,” I murmured, the edge in my voice softening. “Not everyone adapts on the run.”

Chris gave a short nod, his expression turning solemn. And in that look, I saw the man I’d followed into a thousand hard places—quietly carrying the weight with me, one burden at a time.

But as much as my heart ached for Adrian's plight, I couldn't help the flicker of anticipation that stirred beneath the surface of my sympathy. There was a quiet, insistent thrill at the thought of what his presence might mean for us. This wasn’t just some lost soul adrift—Adrian was a builder, a man who’d carved a business out of nothing back in Hobart. He ran his own construction company, respected in his field, from what little I’d gathered. He was practical, precise, and driven. With someone like that in our camp, we didn’t have to just hold on—we could move forward.

I imagined real structures rising from this dust-swept ground, shelters and storerooms and perhaps even proper pathways. Not just survival, but progress. Cohesion. Community. With Adrian's expertise, we could finally start laying the bones of permanence.

But then, as if catching sight of my own reflection in a cracked mirror, I halted the thought mid-flow, my brow knitting into a scowl. A sour taste crept up the back of my throat, not from the heat or the dust, but from the deeper, more uncomfortable truth lurking in my mind.

There it was again—that subtle, insidious justification.

I was doing it once more: making excuses for Luke.

He’d taken Adrian—just like the rest of us. Plucked him from his family, his life, without warning, without consent. An invisible hand reaching across worlds, reshaping fate on a whim. And what was I doing? Not raging, not protesting the violation of every moral principle we’d once held sacred. No—I was cataloguing the man's CV like he was a new hire for a job he hadn’t applied for.

Luke was playing God. There was no other way to frame it. And worse, some part of me… accepted it. Welcomed it, even.

I should have been furious. I should have felt disgust, revulsion, a fierce sense of injustice. But instead, there was a strange stillness inside me. A numb, pragmatic acceptance that frightened me far more than any reticulated python or errant goat.

Had I already changed that much?

The jar in my hands shifted slightly as the spiderlings within continued their frantic dance, their tiny legs tapping against the glass like the ticking of a distant clock. They were wild, displaced—yet somehow adapting. I looked down at them, and for a moment, I wasn’t sure who I was identifying with more: the creature that brought them here… or the ones trapped inside.

It scared me—this creeping moral erosion. This rationalising of the unthinkable in the name of order, of survival. But standing there in the sweltering heat, surrounded by plans and people and the echoes of a world lost, I realised something far more alarming.

At that moment… I didn’t care.

There were other things to do. More immediate concerns. Bigger priorities than my internal reckoning.

I adjusted the jar against my chest and stepped forward, leaving the question of conscience for another day.

“We were just taking Chris through some of the plans that we brought with us,” Sarah said, her voice cutting through my reverie like a gentle chime, drawing me back into the present.

I gave a small, apologetic shake of my head, trying to brush away the tangled thoughts that still clung to the edges of my mind like cobwebs. Now wasn’t the time for philosophical reckonings. Now was the time for action.

“I actually brought something that might help persuade you of the need to move quickly on the project,” I said, stepping forward and holding up the jar of spiderlings. The motion stirred the delicate web of life within, and the tiny creatures responded with renewed energy, their wiry legs flitting and dancing across the glass like frantic punctuation marks.

The effect was immediate. Grant and Sarah leaned in with the synchronised focus of two minds long-trained to observe the intricacies of the natural world. Their eyes lit up with the thrill of discovery, a shared awe that flickered across their features like sunlight breaking through a canopy.

I felt a ripple of satisfaction, a quiet vindication that pulsed in my chest. “I found them in one of the bags of firewood,” I explained, the memory still vivid—the sudden flurry of movement, the fragile shimmer of tiny legs against splintered bark. “They need a place to call home, a sanctuary where they can thrive and flourish. And we need to move fast to make that happen.”

Grant nodded slowly, the furrow between his brows deepening as he absorbed the weight of what I was saying. His gaze remained fixed on the jar, but I could see the moment he mentally shifted gears.

“You're right,” he said, his tone low but resolute, rich with that quiet authority he wielded so naturally. “We can't afford to waste any time. Every moment we delay is a moment that these creatures are left vulnerable and exposed.”

Sarah was already thumbing through the nearest stack of folders, her enthusiasm bubbling just beneath the surface. “We've brought along some plans and designs for the sanctuary,” she added, gesturing to the mess of annotated sketches, printed reports, and hand-drawn diagrams strewn across the table like a tapestry of vision and ambition. “But we know that we need to start small, to lay the groundwork for something that can grow and evolve over time.”

Their shared conviction was like a balm, soothing the tightness that had taken root behind my ribs. For all the friction and the uncertainty that plagued our days, here was something solid—something tangible we could build together.

“That's exactly what Chris and I have been discussing,” I replied, the words flowing more freely now, borne on a current of resolve. “We need to establish a plant nursery and an orchard, to start exploring the properties of this new environment and to provide some much-needed greenery and life to this barren landscape.”

As I spoke, I could almost see it—the soft green of leaves rustling in the warm breeze, the dappled light filtering through the canopy, the hum of bees and birds and all the life we could nurture here. It felt close now, no longer a distant dream but a possibility within reach.

Chris nodded, his own face etched with a determination that mirrored my own.

“We've been talking about how these projects could serve a dual purpose,” he said, his hand coming to rest on my shoulder in a gesture of support and solidarity. The warmth of his touch grounded me, a subtle but steady reassurance that we were aligned in purpose, standing shoulder to shoulder on this strange new frontier. “In the short term, we could supply resources for Bixbus, to help keep the camp running smoothly. And in the long term, we could expand to provide resources for the wildlife sanctuary as well.”

Grant and Sarah exchanged a glance, an unspoken conversation playing out in the subtle movements of their brows and the slight tilt of their heads. Their eyes, so often lit with intellectual fervour, now held a deeper, more contemplative sheen—a recognition of the scale and gravity of what lay ahead.

“It's a good plan,” Grant said at last, his voice filled with a quiet approval. “From what Chris tells me, the whole area about us has remarkable soil beneath the layers of dust and the hard crust.”

“We've seen the coriander plants, Grant,” Sarah interrupted her brother, her tone sharp with conviction. Clearly reminding him—reminding all of us—of the visual proof we already had. The lush green of that remarkable crop had been more than just sustenance; it had been revelation.

Grant nodded, his eyes alight with a fierce and burning curiosity that made him seem younger for a moment, almost boyish in his scientific wonder.

“I know. And if this soil is everywhere, then I suspect that some of these plans can be fast-tracked,” he said, motioning to the folders and diagrams that lay spread out before him in a chaotic sprawl of possibility.

“What do you mean?” Sarah asked, her brow furrowing in a mixture of confusion and intrigue, as though sensing her brother was sprinting toward a conclusion she hadn’t quite caught up with yet.

Having already read through the plans myself, I thought I could guess where Grant was heading. The pieces clicked together in my mind like seeds finding purchase in fertile ground, and I chimed in, my own voice laced with a growing excitement that pulsed in my chest.

“We can probably bypass the initial soil assessments. I suspect that it really doesn't matter where we begin the site construction. Anywhere along the river is probably going to suit our purposes, at least initially.”

Grant nodded, a smile of approval tugging at the corners of his mouth, small but unmistakably genuine. “That's exactly what I was thinking.”

“We need to start really simple and basic anyway, so there's no real harm if we have to relocate as we progress,” Chris added, his own voice filled with a quiet confidence born from experience. He knew the rhythms of growth, the patience of things that took root.

Sarah nodded, her face now etched with the same determined glow that burned in her brother’s expression.

“We can work together on this,” she said, her hand reaching out to clasp mine across the table in a firm, earnest grip—a bridge of trust and solidarity. “We'll pool our knowledge and resources, and we'll make this happen. For the sake of all the creatures that depend on us.”

I felt a lump rising in my throat, emotion swelling unexpectedly in the wake of her words. It caught me off guard, that sudden and overwhelming surge of connection. In that moment, beneath the harsh sunlight and the endless stretch of scorched land, I knew that I had found kindred spirits in Grant and Sarah. Fellow stewards of life. People who understood—truly understood—the sacred responsibility of caretaking.

But even as I basked in the warmth of that realisation, something cold and insistent stirred at the edges of my awareness. A shadow of doubt, flickering like a mirage on the horizon. There was something they weren’t saying. I could feel it, an absence in their enthusiasm, a hollow space behind their smiles. Some piece of the puzzle still missing from our understanding of this world—and of them.

And just like that, the moment dimmed, a cloud passing over the sun.

Grant threw his sister a curious sideways glance before turning his attention back to me.

“We really need to make contact with James,” he said, his voice filled with a sudden urgency that made my heart skip a beat. The way he said it—sharp, immediate—sent a ripple of unease down my spine.

“Who is James?” Chris asked, beating me to the punch.

“He works at Bonorong with us,” Sarah answered, her voice filled with a quiet intensity. “He is our key contact with Brad Coleman.”

“Who?” I asked, my curiosity piqued by the unfamiliar name.

“Brad works for EcoSolutions Consulting,” Sarah replied.

I felt a sudden jolt of recognition, a flash of understanding that made my heart race. I had seen the EcoSolutions Consulting branding throughout the documents I had pored over earlier, the sharp, professional logos stamped confidently across site plans and development reports.

“EcoSolutions,” I repeated. “They're the ones who drew these plans up for you, aren't they?” I asked, gesturing to the papers and diagrams that lay scattered across the table, now taking on a surreal, almost tragic quality. As if they were blueprints for a civilisation that would never exist.

Sarah nodded. “Yeah. We’re supposed to be meeting with them to provide regular updates on our progress of the initial site assessment.”

I felt a sudden and sickening lurch in the pit of my stomach, a sense of dread that made my blood run cold. It was as if the world had tilted, just slightly, and suddenly nothing was level anymore. Chris and I exchanged a nervous glance, our eyes filled with a sudden and terrible understanding—one that neither of us dared speak aloud just yet.

We both knew that neither of us wanted to be the one to tell Grant and Sarah the truth about their situation here, to shatter the illusion of normality and control that they had so carefully constructed around themselves. It would be like telling a child the stars weren't real, just pinpricks in the curtain of night.

“How were you supposed to provide updates?” Chris asked, his voice filled with a sudden and desperate urgency. “Were you intending to cross between Clivilius and Earth through the Portal?”

The air felt razor-sharp. My eyes widened with shock, my breath catching in my throat at the unexpected turn Chris had taken. I stared at him, stunned—not because the question didn’t make sense, but because I hadn’t thought to ask it myself. I hadn’t even considered the idea that they might believe such a thing was possible. That there could still be a pathway, a back-and-forth, a tether to Earth.

Could they really believe that?

Could they know something we didn’t?

My pulse quickened, a strange flicker of hope and fear twisting in my chest. Was there a loophole? A breach in the rules of this place that might yet be exploited? Or was this just another illusion, another false door painted on the wall of a trap we had all fallen into?

Grant opened his mouth to speak, but before he or Sarah could respond, the approach of Paul interrupted our intense conversation. The timing felt like a cruel twist, the moment pregnant with revelation slipping through our fingers like water through a sieve. I felt a flicker of annoyance at the intrusion, my thoughts still caught in the web of what Grant and Sarah might have been about to reveal—some truth hovering on the precipice, now snatched away by footsteps on dust.

But as I turned to face Paul, my irritation ebbed, giving way to curiosity and something colder—concern. His gait was purposeful, the familiar bounce in his stride noticeably absent. There was a tightness to his features, a pinched seriousness that sat uneasily on his normally cheerful face. Whatever had brought him here, it wasn’t casual.

“Paul, what brings you here?” I asked, schooling my voice into something neutral, though my senses were already sharpening. I studied his expression closely, searching for any sign of what weighed so heavily on him. His jaw was set, the faintest crease forming between his brows.

He paused, eyes flicking between Chris and me, as if assessing how best to unload the burden pressing at the edges of his resolve. That alone sent warning bells clanging in my chest.

“I need to talk to you about something important,” he said at last, his voice low and urgent.

I leaned in closer, my stomach knotting, my breath caught somewhere just above my diaphragm. In a place like Clivilius, important could range anywhere between the mildly inconvenient and the utterly catastrophic. My thoughts raced, ticking through possibilities—Vincent again? Something to do with Beatrix? Had someone found Maggie?

“Go on, Paul,” I urged him, keeping my voice calm, steady—a veneer of control over the unease that curled tighter in my gut with each passing second.

He took a breath, deep and deliberate, and when he spoke, his words hit like an unexpected thunderclap.

“Tonight, we're planning to raid a large supermarket. We need supplies, and it's our best shot.”

I felt my eyebrows lift involuntarily. For a heartbeat, I could only blink, my brain struggling to stitch together the image of Paul—gentle, practical Paul—proposing something that sounded straight out of a dystopian drama.

A raid. On a supermarket.

The idea teetered on the edge of absurdity, but one look around us—the parched earth, the patched-together shelters, the ever-dwindling rations—told me it wasn’t fantasy at all. It was the logical escalation of a world where rules no longer held, where desperation made thieves of the well-intentioned.

The world we once knew was gone. Perhaps it had always been more fragile than we wanted to believe. And now here we stood, poised to break the glass even further, just to survive.

Chris, meanwhile, seemed to be taking the news in stride. “A raid, you say?” he asked, his voice filled with a note of intrigue that made me want to shake my head in exasperation. Trust Chris to find the prospect of a dangerous and potentially illegal mission exciting. That glint in his eye—half mischief, half tactical interest—was as familiar as it was maddening.

Grant and Sarah exchanged glances, their expressions mirroring a mix of curiosity and concern. Still green to the rhythms and realities of Clivilius, they were clearly trying to make sense of what a ‘raid’ might actually entail here. The word alone carried weight, conjuring images of masked break-ins or survivalist scrambles in the dead of night. I saw it in the flicker of hesitation that passed across Sarah’s face, the faint crease that tugged at the corner of Grant’s mouth.

I sighed, the sound escaping me like a slow deflation of resolve. The weight of the day pressed down heavily on my shoulders—sunburned skin, frayed nerves, frayed tempers. I could feel the beginnings of a dull headache throbbing behind my temples.

“I'm feeling a bit of heat exhaustion, so I might retire early tonight,” I admitted to Paul, hoping that honesty wouldn’t be mistaken for fragility. Clivilius didn’t often reward vulnerability.

“But Chris will be there to support you,” I added quickly, glancing at my husband. It was half reassurance, half delegation—my quiet way of saying, this is your kind of chaos, not mine.

To my surprise, Grant spoke up. “We'll be there too,” he said, his tone resolute as he glanced to his sister for confirmation. Sarah nodded, her mouth firming into a determined line. I felt a flicker of reluctant admiration swell within me. They might still be finding their footing, but there was no denying their commitment. Despite the strangeness of their new world, they weren’t shying away from the hard parts.

Paul looked relieved. “Fantastic,” he said, his voice filled with a mix of gratitude and anticipation, though I could see the fine tension that lingered in his shoulders.

“What's the plan?” Chris asked, leaning forward like an eager student about to be assigned his next great expedition. I nearly rolled my eyes. Of course he’d dive headfirst into the unknown with barely a map.

Paul shrugged. “I'm not exactly sure of the fine details yet. But basically, we'll meet at the Portal to receive the goods that Luke and Beatrix bring us.”

At the mention of the Portal, my stomach gave an involuntary twist. There was something inherently unsettling about relying so heavily on Luke’s machinations, especially when wrapped in the unpredictable package that was Beatrix. The Portal—once a marvel—was fast becoming a moral minefield. A blurry line between salvation and manipulation.

Grant commented on the simplicity of the plan, and I caught the brief upward twitch of Sarah’s eyebrow—just enough to suggest she shared my skepticism. Things in Clivilius were never simple. This place had a way of twisting the straightest roads into knots.

“We'll talk about it later this evening at the campfire. We've got a fair bit of preparation to do for it,” Paul said, his voice clipped with finality, drawing a subtle line in the sand. Discussion closed. For now.

“Preparation… such as?” I asked, folding my arms as I tilted my head, genuinely curious as to what exactly any of us could do to help—given that we couldn’t come and go through the Portal like the Guardians could.

“Well, it's likely to be a midnight raid, of sorts, so we'll need to build some additional fires near the Portal so that we have some light,” Paul explained, his hands moving as he spoke, carving shapes into the air as if mapping out the logistics then and there.

“I see,” I responded, giving a slow nod of comprehension. But even as the words left my lips, my thoughts pulled in conflicting directions. Paul was right—the camp was running lean, and a raid on a large supermarket could provide enough supplies to stabilise us for weeks, even months. The image flickered to life in my mind: trolleys piled high with food and essentials, rolling straight through shimmering portals into our dust-blown outpost. A surreal, almost magical solution to very real, very human needs.

Yet I couldn’t ignore the other side of the equation. We were, at the heart of it, contemplating theft. State-of-the-art looting with a sci-fi twist—bypassing alarms, locks, and surveillance without even the press of a button and a step through space-time. No smashed glass or forced entry, just the silent slipping of fingers into someone else's pocket. And not out of desperation in the way looters in the old world might justify it—but out of strategic convenience.

I doubted Luke or Beatrix had ever even considered paying for what they were taking. Why would they? With unrestricted access to Earth from any angle, there was no need to play by its rules. Why fumble through ethics when you can simply walk through a wall?

I tried to summon outrage, tried to stoke the fires of principle, but the flames were faint, barely a flicker. Instead, there was a gnawing weight of resignation in my gut—a sour knot of complicity. Time and again, our moral compass seemed to bend to the gravity of necessity. And though it troubled me, I no longer knew if I would—or could—stand in opposition to it.

But even as I wrestled with the unease coiling in my stomach, the pragmatist in me rose to the fore. This wasn’t Earth. This was Clivilius. A world unmoored from law, expectation, and oversight. A world that would not hesitate to crush us if we hesitated too long to adapt. And survive we must.

“Makes sense, I guess,” I said at last, each word weighted with unspoken struggle, the corners of my mouth pulled tight with reluctant acceptance.

“Yeah,” Paul said, nodding. His voice was steady, yet I didn’t miss the edge of fatigue beneath it. “Like I said, I’ve got a lot to consider at the moment, so full details at the campfire later.” There was something reassuring in his tone, the quiet certainty of someone who understood the burden of leadership—not just as a privilege, but as a cost. That was something I’d come to admire in Paul, even if I didn’t always agree with his direction.

“Roger that,” Grant chimed in cheerfully, his boyish grin flashing as he raised a hand in a mock salute. It was a jarring note of levity in an otherwise sombre exchange, like a bright-coloured flag flapping against storm clouds.

Sarah didn’t seem to appreciate the break in tone. Her eyes narrowed as she cast him a look—a subtle but firm reproach. I recognised that look well. It was the same one I’d used countless times with Chris when he’d joked his way through perilous situations. A silent reminder: not everything is meant to be lightened.

As Paul prepared to leave, I realised that if I wasn't going to debate the ethics of plundering a supermarket on Earth, then I may as well take advantage of the opportunity it presented. I took a steadying breath—one of those deep, deliberate inhalations meant to fortify the spine more than the lungs—and stepped forward, catching him just before he could slip away.

“Paul,” I said, beckoning him with a subtle tilt of my head. He glanced over, pausing, and allowed me to draw him a few steps away from the others. The sun glinted off the glass jar I cradled in my hands, the movement inside catching his eye even before I spoke.

Holding it up, I angled the jar so the light revealed its precious cargo: dozens of minute huntsman spiderlings scurrying over each other in a silken tangle of legs.

“I captured these little guys in jars yesterday,” I began, watching his eyes widen. “They were in a bag of firewood that was delivered. I've managed to catch a considerable number of them.”

Paul squinted at the jar, leaning in ever so slightly, but his body remained tilted away—ready to recoil at a moment’s notice. I could tell he was intrigued, but not exactly eager to get better acquainted with the jar’s skittering inhabitants.

In a hushed tone, I let my deeper concern slip through. “I'm worried about their survival in this environment. Plus, I want to start breeding a few species of insects in captivity.” My voice softened, but the urgency didn’t waver. These weren’t just insects to me—they were the building blocks of an entire ecosystem, tiny keystones in the vast cathedral we were trying to raise out here in the dust.

Paul’s expression changed—his eyebrows lifted just enough to show he was taking it seriously. He gave a small nod, and the weight behind it mattered more than words.

“I'll mention it to Luke and Beatrix. They might be able to help with getting you some aquariums.”

“Terrariums would be better,” I corrected gently, unable to stop the smile that accompanied my words. Not smug, not mocking—just warm. A shared understanding between two people both trying, in their own ways, to keep something alive in a place that so easily devoured.

Paul’s face brightened with a flicker of realisation. “Actually,” he said, the idea visibly slotting into place like a gear catching in a mechanism. “The store we are raiding tonight has a pet section. I'll make a mental note to speak with Beatrix and Luke and make sure that they look in that section. Should be something useful in all that.”

“Fingers crossed,” I replied, allowing a thread of hope to wrap itself around the tight coil of worry in my chest. I stepped a little closer and held the jar up again, this time deliberately lifting it towards his face. The tiny spiders darted and danced against the glass, their legs like fragile filaments of smoke. “These ones are counting on us,” I added, half-serious, half-playful.

Paul's entire body gave a visible shudder, his shoulders bunching instinctively as he leaned away from the jar. The reaction drew a grin from me—wide and genuine this time.

I laughed softly, a quiet release of tension, and gestured for us to head back toward the others. “Come on,” I said, still smiling. “Before you start imagining one crawling up your sleeve.”

As we walked, the jar nestled safely in my hands, I felt a ripple of cautious optimism. Maybe tonight’s raid would bring more than just food and medicine. Maybe, just maybe, it would help sow the seeds of something greater.

As we rejoined the others, Sarah spoke up, her voice filled with a renewed sense of urgency. “We really do need to contact James,” she told Paul, her eyes darting between him and her brother.

Her tone was clipped, purposeful, the kind of voice that brooked no delay. My ears pricked at the name—James again—and my curiosity was well and truly snagged. The wheels in my head began to turn, conjuring question after question about how they could possibly hope to reach someone back on Earth. Was it bluster? Denial? Or did they know something the rest of us didn’t?

But before I could voice a single thought, Paul was already in motion, his long strides carrying him into action like a man on a mission.

“Sure. Come with me,” he said, ushering Grant and Sarah to follow him.

A sudden gust of wind rose from nowhere, rustling through our makeshift camp and lifting the loose papers from the table like startled birds taking flight. Sarah sprang forward, chasing them with quick movements, her brows knit in frustration and urgency. It was a moment that felt almost symbolic—our plans, both literal and metaphorical, scattered on the wind.

I stood frozen for a moment, torn between wanting to follow them and knowing I had no rightful place in the conversation that was about to unfold. My feet itched to move, to chase after answers, but before I could so much as take a step, Chris's voice cut across the quiet like the crack of a twig.

“I can mind the folders and plans until you return,” he said, reaching out to take the papers from Sarah’s hands.

I shot him a glance. His expression was as calm and steady as ever, but something in me bristled. I didn’t like being benched. Not now, not when pieces of the puzzle were finally starting to shift into view. A flicker of irritation passed through me—sharp and unwelcome—but I pushed it down before it could rise to the surface.

As I watched Grant and Sarah disappear alongside Paul, their silhouettes swallowed by the golden dust and lengthening shadows, a sense of helplessness coiled in my stomach. My mind churned with possibilities—had they figured out a way to return to Earth? Could James somehow act as a tether? Was Luke orchestrating more than he was letting on?

My thoughts were still racing when Chris’s voice broke through once more, grounded and practical.

“I'll get these plans inside for safety,” he said, picking up the last folder and tucking it neatly under his arm.

I nodded, though I barely heard him. My mind was spiralling outward, chasing every improbable scenario, every half-formed theory. The reality was clear enough: they were heading toward the Portal. And I had been left behind.

“And I'm going for a walk,” I said, my voice more brittle than I intended, distant and distracted like it belonged to someone else.

I didn’t wait for a response. I simply turned, boots crunching over the parched ground, and strode away from the heart of camp. The air was dry and sharp in my lungs, each breath filling me with a mix of clarity and restlessness. The further I walked, the quieter everything became—just the low rasp of wind across dusty hills and the steady thud of my footsteps marking time.

Out here, the wide, empty world of Clivilius stretched in every direction, raw and vast and empty. It gave me no answers, but it gave me space.