Wallets and Bank Details

"The truck arrived full of cement and hope, then Luke asked for my wallet and suddenly I understood what surrender actually meant."

"Do you hear that?"

Jamie's question halted me mid-motion, his grip on my arm preventing the pebble in my hand from joining its predecessors in their dusty flights across the land. We had been passing the time — killing it, really — with the mindless ritual of throwing stones into the distance, watching them arc and fall and disappear into the brown expanse that seemed to swallow everything eventually.

I paused, tuning my ears to the sound that had caught Jamie's attention. At first there was nothing but the whisper of wind across dust, that constant companion that had become so familiar I barely noticed it anymore. But then — there. Faint but unmistakable. A rhythm that didn't belong to this world.

"I think so," I answered, the sound slowly becoming clearer as it grew. "Is that... it sounds like a reversing vehicle?"

The suggestion seemed absurd even as I spoke it. A reversing vehicle. Here. In a world where the only mechanical thing we had seen was the Portal itself, that shimmering impossibility that had delivered us to this exile. Yet the unmistakable beep of a vehicle moving backwards was hard to dismiss — that universal warning sound that meant the same thing on every construction site, in every car park, in every corner of the Earth we had left behind.

"It does, doesn't it?" Jamie's response carried a mixture of excitement and disbelief that matched my own conflicted feelings. "And it sounds like it's coming from the direction of the Portal. It must be Luke!"

His optimism was infectious, yet a part of me balked at the idea. My mind immediately began cataloguing the absurdities.

Luke? The thought echoed through my head with something approaching alarm. Luke, of all people, reversing a vehicle through the Portal?

The notion was almost laughable. Luke's aversion to driving was legendary in our family. He had barely touched a steering wheel, preferring to walk, cycle, or rely on Jamie to ferry him wherever he needed to go. Why on Earth would he be reversing a truck?

And the logistics of it — driving through the study wall, the entry point of our arrival in Clivilius — presented a puzzle that my mind struggled to piece together. The Portal opened in Luke and Jamie's house. How did you drive a truck through a house? Through a wall?

Despite my reservations, Jamie was already moving, jogging towards the Portal.

I followed as best I could, my injured foot a painful reminder of the previous night's drama with every step.

"Shit," I muttered under my breath as the first jolt of pain shot up through my ankle. The burn, though not serious in appearance — the skin red and tender rather than blistered — was agonisingly sensitive to pressure. And the absence of proper footwear only compounded my discomfort. I had been barefoot since the morning, my shoes abandoned to allow my foot the space to breathe, and now each step kicked up dust that seemed to seek out the raw skin like a predator finding wounded prey.

The journey to the Portal felt interminable given my injury. Jamie's figure grew smaller in the distance, his pace unfettered by physical ailments, while I lagged behind like a wounded animal trying to keep up with a healthy herd. Each step was a negotiation between determination and pain, the burn throbbing its displeasure with every impact.

The possibility of Luke's return — under such bizarre circumstances, no less — added a layer of urgency to my movements that pushed me forward despite the discomfort. Answers. Supplies. Connection to the world we had lost. All of it might be just over that small rise, waiting in whatever vehicle was making that impossible sound.

As I hobbled forward, the reversing beeps grew louder. Whatever we would find at the Portal remained to be seen, but the prospect of any change to our current predicament was enough to quicken my pace, pain or not.

Limping over the crest of the small hill, the sight that greeted me was almost comical — a small truck awkwardly making its way backwards through the Portal, emerging from that shimmering surface like some mechanical birth. And there was Jamie, animatedly waving his hands in the air, attempting to direct it with the desperate energy of a ground crew trying to guide in a pilot who had forgotten how to fly.

The sight of him trying to guide the vehicle — as if his gestures could somehow compensate for whatever disaster was unfolding behind that windscreen — was enough to draw a chuckle from me despite everything. If that really was Luke behind the wheel, and I was increasingly certain it was, then Jamie's efforts were predictably futile. You couldn't teach a blind man to see by waving your arms more vigorously.

"For fuck's sake, Luke!" Jamie's exasperated cry cut through the air, confirming my suspicions about the driver's identity with the frustrated familiarity of someone who had shouted those exact words many times before.

"I told you," I muttered to myself, watching the scene unfold with a mixture of amusement and alarm. The near miss as the truck almost collided with Jamie was classic Luke — reckless, impulsive, operating on instinct rather than skill, but somehow always managing to pull through by the skin of his teeth. Brilliant and dangerous in equal measure.

By the time I reached them, Luke was already out of the truck, jumping down from the cab with a mixture of gusto and relief that suggested even he knew how close that had been. His landing kicked up a small cloud of dust that settled on his shoes — shoes that were clean, that had walked on Earth that morning, that still carried traces of a world I might never see again.

Jamie's frustration was palpable as he confronted Luke, his body language radiating the kind of anger that comes from fear transmuted.

"What the fuck are you doing, Luke? You know you can't drive! You almost hit me!"

His complaint was valid — entirely, objectively valid — yet there was an underlying concern beneath the harsh words that spoke of something deeper than mere irritation. This was how they communicated, I was beginning to understand. Through conflict and profanity and the kind of bickering that only people who truly loved each other could sustain.

I couldn't help but roll my eyes at the exchange. Jamie's decision to get so close to the truck, knowing full well Luke's driving capabilities — or rather, his comprehensive lack thereof — struck me as more reckless than brave.

Jamie's more stupid than I thought.

The observation was uncharitable but honest. You didn't stand in front of a truck driven by someone who could barely park a shopping trolley without incident.

"You shouldn't have got so close to me, then," Luke retorted, his defensive stance typical of the verbal sparring that seemed to define their relationship. Never admit fault. Always deflect. It was a strategy I recognised from a thousand arguments with Claire, though Luke wielded it with less malice and more genuine bewilderment at being blamed for things that were obviously his fault.

Watching them, I was reminded of an old married couple — bickering over something trivial yet filled with underlying affection that neither would acknowledge in words. The urge to laugh bubbled up within me, a momentary distraction from the weight of everything we were facing.

Yet as quickly as the amusement came, it was replaced by a pang of sadness that caught me off guard. Memories of my last night with Claire surged to the forefront of my mind unbidden — the argument, the unresolved tension, the way we had circled each other with accusations and silences that said more than words ever could. The familiar rhythm of conflict without resolution. The distance that had grown between us like a wall built one brick at a time.

The reminder of what — and who — I had left behind made my heart heavy.

And the laughter died in my throat.

"What happened to you?" Luke inquired, his attention finally shifting to me. His eyes had found my bare, injured foot and the uneven gait that betrayed every step.

"I burned it,” I responded with a straightforwardness that belied the complexity of the situation. How did you explain a night of absolute darkness, of hallucinated voices calling you into fire, of complete psychological collapse? How did you compress all of that into a sentence that someone who hadn't lived it could understand?

"Burned it? How?" Luke's confusion was evident, his face creasing with the effort to imagine circumstances that would lead to such an injury in this empty landscape.

Not entirely sure how to distil the night's events into a narrative that Luke would grasp without further bewildering him, I glanced at Jamie. A silent plea for backup. Perhaps he could articulate the sequence of events more succinctly than I felt capable of — my mind still flinched from the memories, from the sound of Rose's voice calling from nowhere.

"Hmm," Jamie began, his tone dripping with the kind of sarcasm that served as his native language. He paused — perhaps for dramatic effect, perhaps searching for the right words — then laid out the events with an accuracy that surprised me. "No light, hot coals, and a fucking dust storm."

The simplicity of his summary, though laced with his characteristic bluntness, captured the essence of the ordeal with unexpected poetry. It was almost haiku-like in its compression — three elements that somehow conveyed everything and nothing at once.

Luke's subsequent look of inquiry towards me demanded confirmation. His eyes asked the questions his mouth hadn't formed yet: Is that really what happened? Are you okay? What aren't you telling me?

"Yeah. That's a pretty accurate summary," I admitted, finding myself unexpectedly admiring Jamie's ability to encapsulate the chaos of the night in a single sentence. He had left out the important parts — the voice, the terror, the complete dissolution of my sanity — but what he had included was technically correct. And sometimes technical accuracy was all you could offer.

"Oh," Was all Luke managed to say. His response fell flat in the wake of Jamie's vivid recounting, his face cycling through expressions that couldn't settle on one emotion. Disappointment, perhaps. Or disbelief. Or the particular helplessness of someone who knows they should say something meaningful but can't find the words.

Jamie's frustration boiled over, his hands flying up in a gesture of theatrical exasperation. "Is that all you have to say? Oh?"

Luke's shrug was noncommittal, his struggle to find the right words written across his features like a confession. This was the other side of Luke — the one who felt deeply but couldn't always express it, who sensed when things were wrong but lacked the vocabulary to address them.

"What do you want me to say?" He asked, genuinely at a loss. It wasn't callousness. It was the particular inadequacy of language when faced with experiences that exceeded its reach.

"I don't know," Jamie retorted. "But surely you could do a little better than just, oh?"

I frowned, watching this familiar dance unfold — an observer to the rhythms of a relationship I was only beginning to understand. Here they go again.

A part of me was relieved that their exchange, though heated, was not directed at me. It was a small consolation, but in that moment, it was enough to inject a faint glimmer of dark humour into the tension that crackled between us.

"So, what's in the truck, Luke?" I ventured, eager to steer the conversation away from the brink of another round of bickering. The tension that had been building seemed to dissipate at the question — a welcome reprieve that redirected everyone's attention to something practical, something that might actually help our situation.

With a dramatic flourish that was utterly characteristic of Luke, the back door of the truck was flung open. It crashed against the side with a resounding clang that echoed across the empty landscape like an announcement.

"It's all the stuff from your list," he announced, his grin wide, showcasing a mixture of pride and excitement at the delivery. The smile of a child presenting a gift they had chosen themselves, hoping desperately for approval.

My reaction was immediate. The frustrations of the morning, the pain in my foot, the lingering terror of the night — all of it receded in the face of this tangible progress.

"Oh, that's great," I exclaimed, genuine enthusiasm flooding through me for the first time since I had opened my eyes in that dust-covered tent. The list. I had almost forgotten the list in the chaos of everything that had followed. But Luke had remembered. Luke had delivered.

"I need the two of you to unpack the truck. I'll come and collect it in an hour or so, once the other tents have arrived," Luke instructed, laying out the plan with a straightforwardness that left little room for argument.

I gestured towards the area we had marked out earlier, the rectangle of ground now designated for exactly this purpose. The Drop Zone. Our first deliberate act of civilisation, about to receive its first delivery.

"There's a spot over there where you can leave all the things you bring through the Portal," I explained, my voice steady with the particular pride of someone presenting a solution they had invented. "Jamie and I can take care of it from there."

"Oh, cool," Luke responded, his casual acceptance marking a smooth transition from potential conflict to collaborative effort.

"It's the Clivilius Delivery Drop Zone," I announced, unable to keep the pride from my voice. The name still felt important to me — a formal designation that transformed lines in the dirt into something official, something real.

"I love it!"

Luke's enthusiasm was infectious, his approval coming in the form of a hearty thumbs up that seemed to validate everything we had built that morning. Finally, someone who appreciated proper nomenclature.

"I just call it the Drop Zone,” Jamie interjected, his tone carrying a familiar hint of dismissiveness towards formality.

"Jamie helped," I quickly added. I nodded towards Jamie, hoping the acknowledgment would smooth over any perceived slight.

However, Jamie's reaction was not what I had anticipated. His glare was sharp, cutting through my good intentions like a blade through butter.

"You say that like you both expected that I wouldn’t," he retorted, the words carrying an undercurrent of hurt that I hadn't meant to provoke. His pout was visible as he huffed his way closer to the back of the truck, his displeasure radiating from every line of his body.

I opened my mouth to apologise, to explain, but Luke was already moving on.

"You better drive the truck over there for me," he instructed, tossing the keys in my direction. I caught them reflexively.

With each step towards the truck, a sharp pain reminded me of the burn on my foot. The injury had been easy to forget during the confrontations, adrenaline serving as temporary anaesthetic. But now, faced with the prospect of operating a clutch and accelerator, the reality of my condition announced itself with renewed insistence.

"I can do it, if you like?" Jamie's offer came at a moment of weakness, his hand outstretched, ready to take the keys.

I paused, considering his proposal. The sensible thing would be to accept — my foot was injured, driving would be painful, and Jamie was perfectly capable of the task. But something in me resisted. A mixture of pride and determination that I couldn't quite justify but couldn't ignore either.

"Nah, It's all good. I'll manage. Thanks though."

My words were genuine, appreciating his willingness to step in even as I declined the offer. I wasn't ready to admit just how much the injury was affecting me. Wasn't ready to show that kind of vulnerability, even to someone who had already seen me at my worst.

"Sure," Jamie replied, his voice neutral, stepping back to allow me to proceed. No argument, no insistence. Just acceptance of my choice, even if he thought it was the wrong one.

Gingerly, I positioned myself behind the wheel of the truck. The driver's seat creaked beneath my weight, the familiar feel of worn vinyl offering a fleeting sense of control. This, at least, I knew how to do. This, at least, was something from my old life that still applied here.

"I want to try and leave again," Jamie's voice filtered through the open door — a statement directed at Luke, not at me.

With a sense of resolve, I slammed the door shut, cutting off their conversation and enveloping myself in the relative silence of the cab. The brief respite from our harsh reality was welcome, even if I knew it was temporary. Through the windscreen, the endless dust stretched in every direction, interrupted only by the small markers of our Drop Zone and the figures of Luke and Jamie engaged in whatever negotiation would determine Jamie's fate.

I had a feeling that it was going to be a very long day.

As I navigated the truck towards the Drop Zone's designated entrance, a semblance of normality played in my mind. There was technically enough space for me to drive through anywhere — the boundaries we had marked were symbolic rather than physical, nothing but piles of stones that the truck could easily traverse. But adhering to the lines we had drawn somehow made the situation feel more manageable, less chaotic. If we couldn't control the world, we could at least control how we entered our own spaces within it.

The entrance, marked by piles of rocks significantly higher than the rest, served as a makeshift gate to our burgeoning infrastructure. I guided the truck through carefully, the pride of a first official delivery mixing with the absurdity of the whole situation.

Bringing the truck to a stop just inside the Drop Zone, a moment of exhilaration washed over me — brief but genuine. We had created this space. We had named it. And now it was being used. Progress, tangible and real.

Stepping down from the vehicle, the anticipation of discovering what Luke had brought mingled with the returning pain from my foot. The cab had provided temporary relief, but now the burn announced itself anew, a sharp reminder that my body was damaged even as my spirits lifted.

Tuning out the noisy chatter of Luke and Jamie, who had distanced themselves from me, I focused on the task at hand. Their conversation had grown animated — voices rising and falling in the particular rhythm of an argument that mattered — but I couldn't make out the words and wasn't sure I wanted to.

The back of the truck greeted me with a resounding clang as I swung the doors wide open. Inside, shadows obscured the cargo, my eyes taking a moment to adjust to the dimness after the brightness of the Clivilius sun.

"Cement, cement mixer, sheds, tools," I narrated softly to myself, itemising the essentials Luke had managed to procure. Each discovery was a small victory — building materials, the means to mix them, storage solutions, implements for the work ahead. A sense of appreciation for Luke's efforts briefly lightened my spirits. He had done well. Better than I had expected, honestly. These weren't random supplies grabbed in haste. This was a curated selection, chosen with thought for what we would actually need.

However, this initial relief quickly gave way to the realisation of the task ahead. A small furrow creased my brow as the logistics settled in.

I'll need to enlist Jamie's help to unpack the truck.

The magnitude of the job was becoming apparent. Cement bags were heavy. The mixer would need to be wheeled out somehow. The sheds would require assembly. None of this was work for one man, especially one man with a burned foot.

I glanced back towards Luke and Jamie, noting the animated nature of their conversation. The volume had escalated to the point where I could catch fragments — anger from Jamie, defensiveness from Luke, the particular pitch of voices that meant feelings were being hurt on both sides.

Something had gone wrong. The Portal, presumably. Jamie's attempt to leave.

I began walking towards them, each step a small agony, until I was close enough to confirm my suspicions.

"Still can't leave, then?" I ventured towards Jamie, who seemed to embody defeat as he sat sulkily in the dust. It was the only logical conclusion I could draw from the scene — his posture spoke of hope crushed, of another rejection from the Portal that had let him in but refused to let him out.

The silence that followed my question was answer enough. An unspoken acknowledgment that hung heavy in the air between us.

"Oh, also," Luke's voice broke through the tense silence. "I need your wallets."

Confusion and curiosity swirled within me, my mind racing to find the logic in such a demand. What on earth does Luke want our wallets for?

The thought barely had time to form before Jamie voiced the scepticism I felt. "What for?"

"Those tents are expensive."

Luke's explanation was simple, but the implications began to dawn on me slowly — a creeping realisation that what he was asking went far beyond the physical objects in our pockets.

"How much did you spend?"

Jamie's question was pointed, demanding transparency that Luke seemed reluctant to provide.

Seconds stretched as we waited for an answer that didn't want to come.

"How much?" Jamie pressed, unwilling to let the matter drop.

"The credit card is almost maxed out," Luke finally admitted. The implications rippled outward — not just spending, but spending everything. Not just money, but the last financial connection they had to the world they had left.

Jamie's reaction was immediate. His frustration manifesting as he kicked at the dust, sending a small cloud billowing into the air. "Shit, Luke."

"It's not like you can use any of it here anyway," Luke countered, a defensive edge to his voice that did little to soothe the growing unease.

I grimaced at Luke's attempt at justification. Poor form, little brother.

The situation was deteriorating rapidly. Luke had meant well — I knew that. But sometimes good intentions delivered badly were worse than no intentions at all.

Jamie's anger flared, his words cutting sharply through whatever remained of the peace.

"Oh, fuck you. Just rub it in, why don't you!? I get it, we're stuck forever in this fucking hole of a dustbowl and it's all thanks to... guess who!?"

His frustration was palpable, raw and ragged at the edges. The helplessness he felt had found its target, and that target was Luke — the partner who had trapped him in a world he never asked to enter.

Seeking to somehow defuse the escalating argument, I reached into my pocket. My fingers found the familiar shape of my wallet — leather worn smooth by years of handling, cards and cash and identification that meant nothing here but everything to me. Its presence, forgotten until now, seemed almost trivial in the grand scheme of our current reality.

"Here," I said, extending the wallet towards Luke. A gesture meant to bridge the gap between necessity and resentment. Perhaps if I cooperated, the tension would ease. Perhaps if I showed willing, Jamie would follow.

"You can't be fucking serious!" Jamie's outrage at my compliance was explosive, his disbelief radiating from every word. He hadn't expected me to give in so easily. Perhaps he had expected an ally in resistance.

I shrugged, a feeble attempt to convey my resignation to the circumstances. What else can I do?

Luke stepped over to take my wallet, his fingers already reaching for it when he added something that changed everything.

"I'll need you to write down all your bank account details too."

His request extended beyond the physical handover, adding a layer of gravity that I hadn't anticipated. This wasn't just about handing over cards. This was about complete financial access. Complete surrender.

"What sort of details?" My question was laced with caution, the implications of his request slowly dawning on me like a cold sunrise.

Luke met my gaze squarely, his intent clear and unnervingly direct.

"Everything," He asserted, the word landing with the weight of a verdict. "Online logins, pin codes. Over the next few days, I'm going to convert as many of your assets into cash as possible."

The seriousness in his voice was unmistakable — a declaration of a plan that felt both desperate and final. He wasn't asking permission. He was explaining what was going to happen, what he had already decided needed to happen for our survival.

A wave of fear washed over me. My eyes widened as the implications took root, spreading through my mind like cracks through ice.

My accounts. My savings. The money Claire and I had built together over years of marriage. The funds that paid for Mack's sports equipment, for Rose's dance lessons, for the mortgage on our house in Broken Hill. All of it, suddenly under threat of being liquidated by my younger brother on the other side of an impossible Portal.

I felt a sudden nausea at the prospect — a visceral reaction to the perceived invasion of my family's privacy and security. This wasn't just about money. This was about control. About severing the last threads that connected me to the life I had built.

In a moment of panic, I acted instinctively. My hand shot out and snatched the wallet back from Luke's grasp before he could fully close his fingers around it. The sudden movement caught him off guard, his surprise visible in the way he threw his hands up.

"What's up?"

His confusion was evident, a stark contrast to the decisive tone he had employed just moments earlier. He genuinely didn't understand. To him, this was logical. Practical. The obvious thing to do when you were trapped in another world and needed resources.

"I can't let you do that, Luke," I found myself saying, the words tumbling out in a rush of emotion and resolve that surprised even me. "I need to think of my children."

The thought of Claire and the kids crystallised everything — cut through the confusion and fear and practical arguments with the sharp clarity of absolute priority. Mack. Rose. Their faces flashed through my mind unbidden, and with them came a fierce protectiveness that overrode every other consideration.

"Claire still has access to those accounts. She'll need the money to take care of the kids, especially now that I have no way of providing them any further support."

The admission was a painful reminder of my current helplessness — the responsibilities that lay beyond the confines of Clivilius, the obligations that didn't disappear just because I had. I was their father. I was supposed to provide for them. And even if I couldn't be there, even if I was trapped in this impossible place forever, I could at least ensure that the money I had earned would still reach them.

The rapidity of my response left me dizzy, a tumult of thoughts and fears swirling within me. I blinked rapidly, trying to refocus, to steady the turmoil that threatened to overwhelm me. The wallet in my hand felt like an anchor now — the last physical connection to my role as provider, as father, as the man who had promised to take care of his family.

Luke's expression shifted from confusion to understanding. Something in my words had reached him — perhaps the mention of children, of responsibility, of the particular weight that came with being a parent.

"Of course," He conceded, his voice softer, tinged with regret. "I understand."

The acknowledgment was a small comfort — a recognition that some connections couldn't be severed, some obligations couldn't be abandoned, even when the practical arguments said otherwise. Luke had no children. He couldn't fully understand what I felt. But he could respect it.

"Here. Take mine," Jamie's voice cut through the tension, his offer catching me completely off guard. I turned to find him holding out his own wallet, the gesture so unexpected it momentarily silenced every other thought in my head.

"It's just the two of us anyway. You may as well have it," he said, and there was something in his voice that hadn't been there before — a resignation that went beyond defeat, an acceptance that touched something deeper than circumstance. His wallet arced through the air, landing with a soft thud at Luke's feet.

Luke bent to retrieve the wallet, his movements gentle, almost reverent.

"Thanks," he said, his smile soft and laden with gratitude.

I found myself caught in the observation of this exchange, a witness to a side of Jamie I had perhaps too hastily overlooked. Despite his brusqueness, despite the sharp edges he presented to the world, here was someone willing to give up everything for the people he loved.

A surge of guilt washed over me for not fully acknowledging the complexity of his character. For underestimating the breadth of his empathy. For assuming that surface roughness meant core coldness.

Maybe…

My train of thought was suddenly derailed by Jamie's next words.

"Shit, Luke. This is insane," he blurted out, the gravity of what we were undertaking hitting him anew.

"I know,” Luke's response was resigned, a verbal shrug in the face of unprecedented circumstances. "But this is just how it is now."

His words, simple yet profound, hung in the air like a verdict. A sombre acknowledgment of our new reality — the finality of it, the permanence that none of us wanted to accept but couldn't escape.

My head bowed, weighed down by the acceptance of our predicament. The weight of it settled on my shoulders like a physical burden, pressing me toward the earth.

"I'll go and get some paper,” I murmured, the need to contribute pushing me to action despite the heaviness that threatened to immobilise me. If Jamie was giving his financial future, the least I could do was provide the means for Luke to record whatever details he needed. It wasn't much. But it was something I could do. Something within my control.

And so I retreated back to the tent.