Twenty Metres

"Optimism isn't something you have—it's something you choose, moment by moment, even when every moment tries to convince you otherwise."

Walking the short distance to the river felt like a brief escape from the turmoil that had engulfed the tent. Each step took me further from the hostility, the tension, the absurd ingratitude of a man rejecting the person who had just saved his life. The red dust crunched beneath my feet, a rhythm that gradually replaced the echoes of confrontation still ringing in my ears.

As I arrived at the river's edge, I stood there, arms folded tightly across my chest, my stance more a reflection of my internal unease than the chill in the air. There was no chill, actually — just the constant oppressive heat of Clivilius.

The water, gently gurgling past, offered a soothing soundtrack to my tumultuous thoughts. It was the only sound in this place that reminded me of Earth, of normality, of afternoons spent by the Zinc Lakes on family picnics before everything became so impossibly complicated. The river didn't care about inter-dimensional travel or charcoal splinters or ungrateful patients. It simply flowed, indifferent and eternal.

It had to be no more than twenty metres wide at this point, I guessed, my eyes tracing its serpentine path as it meandered through the landscape. A businessman's instinct kicked in — assessing, measuring, calculating. Twenty metres. Not insurmountable for a bridge, if you had materials and expertise and a construction crew. None of which we possessed.

"It's a good spot for a nice bridge," Glenda's voice, soft and unexpected, broke through my reverie.

I gave a little jump, the surprise of her presence snapping me out of my deep thoughts. My heart stuttered before settling back into its rhythm. I hadn't heard her approach — too lost in my own contemplations to register the sound of footsteps on dust.

Turning my head to look at her, I found a small smile tugging at the corners of my mouth, despite the sombre mood that had taken hold of me. There was something about Glenda that invited smiling, even when smiling felt like the last thing your face wanted to do. Perhaps it was her composure, that unshakeable professionalism that had carried her through surgery and dog aggression without complaint.

"It is," I replied.

Glenda moved in beside me, her presence a comforting warmth. She stood close enough that I could sense her there without looking — that particular awareness you develop of another body in proximity. After the isolation of the past days, the simple act of standing beside someone who wasn't screaming or crying or criticising felt almost luxurious.

"It's oddly beautiful, isn't it?" She observed, her gaze not on the river, but on the larger scene that unfolded before us. The way the late afternoon light danced on the water's surface, the gentle swirls of the dust in the breeze, the distant cliffs rising like sentinels on the horizon — it all painted a picture of serenity that stood in opposition to the chaos that had unfolded in the tent.

I followed her gaze, trying to see what she saw. For me, this landscape had been threat and challenge and survival problem. For Glenda, apparently, it was also beautiful. The shift in perspective felt like adjusting the focus on a camera — suddenly the same image revealed different details.

"It is," I replied again, my agreement automatic as I took in the scene anew through her eyes. The beauty of it all, in such an unexpected moment and place, struck me, lending a fleeting sense of normality to the otherwise extraordinary circumstances we found ourselves in. Perhaps beauty existed everywhere, if you had the presence of mind to notice it. Perhaps I'd been too busy panicking to see.

"How are you so relaxed with all of this?" I asked her, my curiosity piqued.

The question had been building since I'd first watched her step through the Portal with that serene composure, as if crossing dimensions was merely an unusual commute. She'd performed emergency surgery, been bitten by a protective dog, endured rejection from her patient — and here she stood, admiring the scenery.

Glenda folded her arms across her chest, mirroring my earlier posture, and shrugged lightly.

"I'm a doctor. It's my job to be calm," she said, her tone matter-of-fact yet tinged with a softness that suggested an underlying strength.

It was a simple explanation, but one that spoke volumes about her character and the resilience she possessed. Years of training, I supposed. Years of facing emergencies and crises and situations where panic would be contagious and fatal. She'd learned to be the still centre in the storm, and now that stillness was simply who she was.

I smiled, a genuine expression of admiration and gratitude for the perspective she brought to our predicament.

"Fair call," I acknowledged, the weight of my own worries momentarily lifted by the interaction.

It occurred to me that I could learn something from her approach. I projected confidence, certainly, but that was different from actually feeling it.

"We will build a bridge," Glenda declared confidently, her voice cutting through the ambient sounds of the river with an assurance that felt both inspiring and jarring against the backdrop of our situation. The statement wasn't a question or a hope — it was a declaration, as certain as if she'd announced that the sun would rise tomorrow.

"We can't," I found myself saying, almost instinctively, shaking my head in disbelief.

The idea seemed as distant as the world we'd left behind — beautiful to imagine but impossible to reach. A bridge required engineering. A bridge required materials and tools and knowledge that none of us possessed. A bridge was civilisation, and we were barely surviving.

"Can't?" Glenda echoed, turning to face me, her eyebrows raised in challenge. "Of course, we can."

"We don't have any materials," I replied, my voice laced with a mixture of frustration and resignation.

The lack of materials wasn't my only concern, though it was the most tangible. Beneath the surface, a sea of doubts swirled. Even if we did have the materials, the task of building a bridge loomed like a mountain before us — daunting, insurmountable. I had no idea where we would even begin. The engineering, the construction, the planning... it was all foreign territory.

I was a businessman who played piano. My expertise lay in spreadsheets and negotiations and the occasional impressed client at a company function when I sat down at the keys. Bridge-building had never featured in my skill set, and adding it now felt like being asked to perform surgery with my eyes closed.

"Luke will get them for us," She said, nudging my crossed arms with her elbow, a light touch that carried the weight of her conviction. Her confidence was unyielding, a fortress against my doubts. The casual physical contact surprised me — we'd known each other for hours, not years — but it felt natural somehow. Comradely.

"And I thought you were the optimistic one."

Her words, delivered with a playful smirk, were a gentle rebuke, a reminder of the roles we had seemingly swapped in the face of adversity. She was right, of course. I was supposed to be the one seeing possibility where others saw obstacles. That had been my role in business, in family, in life. Somehow, Clivilius had stripped that away from me, replacing optimism with a creeping despair I didn't recognise as my own.

My eyes narrowed in thought, not in skepticism but in contemplation. Her unwavering belief, her ability to see beyond the immediate obstacles, was a beacon in the fog of my uncertainty. Perhaps optimism wasn't something you had or didn't have — perhaps it was something you chose, moment by moment, regardless of circumstances. Perhaps Glenda was choosing it now, and inviting me to choose it too.

"I am," I finally said, the words emerging slowly, deliberately. A reclamation. A reminder to myself of who I was supposed to be. Paul the optimist. Paul who saw solutions. Paul who didn't let impossible circumstances dictate his outlook. That man had been buried somewhere in the past few days, but maybe he could be excavated.

"Glenda! Paul!" Luke's voice, edged with urgency, sliced through the quiet murmur of the afternoon air.

The moment shattered like glass, the peaceful interlude by the river giving way to whatever new crisis awaited. My body tensed automatically, preparing for bad news.

"Come," Glenda beckoned.

We followed Luke inside the tent, the fabric flaps parting to reveal a scene that tugged at the heartstrings. I caught sight of Jamie hastily wiping away tears from his face — a rare glimpse into his vulnerability. The hard edges I'd seen earlier had softened into something raw and human. Pain did that to people. It stripped away the armour they wore and exposed the frightened person underneath.

"You okay?"

Luke's concern was palpable as he dropped the bags he was carrying, his actions punctuating the urgency of his query. He rushed to Jamie's side, kneeling beside him with a tenderness that made something twist in my chest. Whatever had passed between them — the accusations, the anger, the impossible situation Luke had created — love remained. Damaged but present. Stubborn in its persistence.

"Yeah," Jamie sniffed, his voice breaking through the mask of toughness. "Just in a lot of pain."

The admission cost him something, I could tell. Jamie wasn't the type to acknowledge weakness easily. For him to admit pain meant the pain had grown beyond his ability to conceal it.

"You'll be right now," Luke assured, his tone gentle yet filled with an unspoken promise. "I've got you some strong pain medication."

The bags he'd dropped sat by the tent entrance, bulging with supplies. Medical supplies. The things we should have had from the start, the things that might have prevented Jamie's suffering from escalating to screaming agony. But they were here now, and that was what mattered.

"Grab that spare blanket and spread it across the floor over there for me," Glenda instructed, her gaze locking onto a blank space along the backside of the tent.

The professional had returned, the contemplative companion from the riverside replaced by the focused physician. I moved to comply, my actions automatic, driven by a desire to be useful in a moment filled with so much uncertainty.

As I laid the blanket out, creating a makeshift workspace, I watched Glenda with a sense of awe. She began to sort through the bags of medical supplies, each movement deliberate and purposeful. Bandages here. Bottles there. Packets of things I couldn't identify arranged in an order that presumably made sense to her trained eye.

This was what competence looked like. This was what it meant to have skills that actually mattered in a crisis. My spreadsheets and negotiation techniques felt laughably irrelevant beside her quiet expertise.

"I'm pretty sure I've got all the items on the list without an asterisk," Luke said, his voice a mixture of hope and hesitation. "But I'll have to go back now and check the supply room for the rest."

The supply room. Wherever that was. Hobart, presumably, though the logistics of Luke's inter-dimensional shopping trips remained mysterious to me. Did he have access to a hospital? A pharmacy? Some secret cache of medical equipment that he'd prepared for exactly this scenario? The questions queued up in my mind but went unasked. There would be time for explanations later.

"Yes. I will need the antiseptic and antibiotics. I can't dress Jamie's wounds properly without them. Go," Glenda insisted, her tone brooking no argument.

Her focus was laser-sharp, the urgency of her request underlined by the critical nature of the supplies. Luke nodded once and was gone, disappearing through the tent flap with the same purposeful speed he'd arrived with.

Jamie moaned again, a sound that cut through me, a visceral reminder of his pain and our collective vulnerability. He shifted his weight, seeking a fraction of relief in a new position. The movement was small but it spoke of desperation — that particular restlessness of someone whose body has become a prison of discomfort.

"Just try and relax," Glenda's voice was soft yet firm. "Not much longer now and I'll have something to take the pain away and help you sleep."

Her words were a promise, a beacon of hope in the shadow of discomfort. I found myself believing her — not just hoping, but actually believing that she would deliver what she promised. That was the effect she had. That certainty she projected became contagious, spreading to those around her.

Jamie exhaled loudly, his breath a release of more than just air — a release of tension, of fear, perhaps even a surrender to the care he was under. The hostility from earlier had evaporated, replaced by something closer to acceptance. Pain had a way of wearing down resistance. So, perhaps, did kindness persistently offered.

"Well, if you don't need me, Glenda, I'll go and see if I can finish getting this other tent up," I said, keen to move along, to find a task that would not just occupy my hands but also offer a distraction from the helplessness that gnawed at the edges of my mind. Standing here watching Glenda work only emphasised how little I could contribute to the medical situation. But the tent — that was something I could do. That was a problem shaped for my hands, even if my hands weren't particularly skilled at shaping it.

"That's fine," Glenda replied, her attention already turning back to Jamie, to the critical task at hand. "I'll come and help you when I've sorted Jamie."

As I stepped out of the tent, the fabric flap closing behind me, I felt the weight of the afternoon air. It was a reminder of the world outside, of the tasks awaiting us, and of the resilience required to face them. The half-built tent stood where I'd left it, its skeleton of poles and partially stretched canvas looking slightly less defeated than it had this morning. Or perhaps I was looking at it differently now.

Setting up the other tent wasn't just about providing shelter; it was about creating a semblance of structure in a world that offered none. It was about proving — to myself, if no one else — that I could contribute something tangible to our survival. Every pole secured, every rope tightened, every section of canvas stretched into place would be a small victory.

And so, with a deep breath, I moved forward, determined to add my contribution to our collective survival. The river glinted in the distance, that same river Glenda had looked at and seen a bridge. Maybe she was right. Maybe "can't" was just "haven't yet" in disguise. Maybe optimism was a choice I could make, one tent pole at a time.