Walls That Lock

"Never thought I'd be this excited about a caravan. But after a shadow panther attack and nights in a canvas tent, a door with a lock feels like moving into a bloody fortress."

Lois came bounding into the tent like a golden comet, her entrance scattering the fragile peace I'd been cultivating for the past hour.

I'd been lying on my sleeping bag, trying to convince my leg that rest was what it needed despite every instinct screaming at me to move, to do something, to be useful rather than this horizontal waste of space and resources. The improvement in the wound's appearance had been encouraging — the angry red fading to something closer to healthy pink, the edges continuing their slow journey toward meeting — but the ache persisted, a dull throb that seemed determined to remind me of what I'd done to earn this healing.

The golden retriever's arrival meant only one thing: Paul had returned to camp.

Lois made a beeline for Henri's bed, her nose working overtime as she investigated the smaller dog with the enthusiasm of someone greeting a long-lost friend. Henri, for his part, did his best to pretend she wasn't there. He'd been sulking all day, curled in his bed like a furry comma of misery, and even Lois's infectious energy couldn't penetrate the cloud of gloom that surrounded him.

I understood. Duke's absence was a wound that went beyond the physical, beyond anything the lagoon or river could heal. Henri had lost his brother, his companion, the other half of whatever canine language they'd shared. And now he was stuck with me — a broken human who couldn't even walk properly, a poor substitute for the dog who'd been at his side since puppyhood.

"Kain," Paul's voice preceded him through the tent flap, carrying a tone I hadn't heard from him before.

Excitement. Genuine, unfiltered excitement, pitched high enough to cut through the lethargy that had settled over me.

I pushed myself upright, wincing as the movement sent a twinge of complaint radiating through my calf. The pain was manageable now — background noise rather than symphony — but it still made its presence known with every shift of position.

"You have a caravan," Paul announced, the words tumbling out as if he'd been holding them in and they'd finally escaped.

I blinked at him, certain I'd misheard. "Huh?"

The confusion must have been painted across my face in bold strokes, because Paul's grin widened as he explained.

"Beatrix has delivered the first caravan, and given your injured leg—" He nodded toward my legs, still hidden beneath the sleeping bag's fabric. "I'm assuming that is why you are in here resting?"

"Yeah," I agreed, the single syllable coming out rougher than intended.

It wasn't the whole truth. Yes, my leg needed rest. But it was also true that I'd been hiding. Avoiding Chris, avoiding Karen, avoiding the possibility of conversations that might lead to questions I couldn't answer. The camp's limited space made genuine solitude impossible, but the tent at least provided the illusion of separation, a thin fabric barrier between myself and the judgements I was certain awaited me.

"In that case, it makes sense that you take the first caravan," Paul continued, his logic unfolding with the straightforward inevitability of someone who'd already worked through the reasoning and arrived at the only sensible conclusion. "If anything else attacks us in the middle of the night, I doubt you'll be running anywhere."

The words landed in my stomach like something cold and heavy.

Another attack. The possibility I'd been trying not to think about, the threat that lurked at the edges of every sunset and the beginning of every darkness. We'd survived one shadow panther assault, barely, and the cost had been written across my leg in lines of torn flesh and borrowed time. The thought that it could happen again — that more of those creatures might be out there, waiting for night to fall and our guard to drop — made something clench behind my ribs.

Paul must have seen the shadow pass across my face, because he pressed on quickly.

"I've parked it outside for you."

Outside. A caravan. A real shelter, with walls that weren't canvas and doors that could lock and barriers that might actually mean something against teeth and claws.

The energy that surged through me was almost violent in its intensity, obliterating the lethargy that had pinned me to the sleeping bag moments before. I scrambled free of the fabric, movements clumsy but determined, and scooped Henri from his bed before the smaller dog could voice an objection.

"Come on, mate," I muttered, tucking him against my chest. "Let's see what Paul's got for us."

We followed Paul out into the afternoon light, and the sight that greeted me stole whatever words I might have been preparing.

The caravan sat fifty yards from the campfire, positioned within the perimeter marked by the fire sticks that marked our only defence against the darkness. It was white, mostly, with stripes of colour along its sides that spoke of holidays and camping trips and the kind of normal life that felt like ancient history now. The sun glinted off its windows, off the chrome fixtures that decorated its exterior, and I found myself frozen in place, staring at it like a man who'd stumbled across water in a desert.

"I have to unhitch it from your ute again, though," Paul said as we approached, his words pulling me back to the practical realities. "I'm expecting Beatrix to bring us a few more."

My heart was doing something strange in my chest — hammering with an urgency that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with hope. A caravan. My caravan, apparently. A place that would be mine, that I could close off from the world, that might offer something approximating safety in a dimension that had proven how dangerous it could be.

"How is Beatrix paying for them all?" I asked, the question emerging before I could think better of it.

Paul handed me the keys — actual keys, metal and mundane and impossibly precious — and I opened the caravan's door with a creak that sounded like welcome.

His chuckle carried a note of deliberate ignorance. "I didn't dare ask her."

I didn't blame him. Some questions had answers you were better off not knowing. Whatever Beatrix was doing to acquire these vehicles, whatever laws she was bending or breaking on the other side of the portal, it was working. And in our current circumstances, results mattered more than methods.

The interior of the caravan embraced me as I stepped inside.

It was small — compact in the way that all caravans were, space arranged with an efficiency born of necessity — but it was also beautiful. Beautiful in its ordinariness, its promise of comfort, its suggestion that civilisation hadn't completely abandoned us after all.

I set Henri down, letting him explore our new domain with the thorough investigation that dogs seemed to consider essential. His nose worked across every surface, every corner, every hidden crevice that might contain secrets or threats or simply the scent of whoever had owned this vehicle before it found its way to another dimension.

"It's nice," I said, the words feeling inadequate to the relief that was flooding through me.

The kitchen caught my attention first — a small refrigerator, a stove with actual burners, a sink that might actually produce water if I was lucky. The sleeping area beckoned from the far end, a double bed that looked more comfortable than anything I'd experienced since arriving in Clivilius. And the seating area, compact but reasonably sized, offered the possibility of sitting somewhere other than sand or rocks or the hard ground that had been my only furniture.

Henri completed his inspection with characteristic thoroughness, finally settling on the bed as his chosen territory. It took him several attempts to make the jump — his short legs not quite suited to the height — but eventually he scrambled up, circled three times in that ancient ritual of nest-making, and plopped down with a snort of satisfaction.

"Looks like there's no complaints from Henri," Paul observed, a light chuckle escaping his lips.

His face held an expression I hadn't seen before — pride, maybe, or the particular satisfaction of someone who'd managed to provide something meaningful. Like a father who'd pulled off Christmas despite impossible odds.

"Is this really all mine?" I asked, moving through the space with a growing sense of wonder.

Every drawer I opened, every cupboard I checked, revealed emptiness — but it was promising emptiness, vacancy that could be filled, potential waiting to be realised. I wouldn't have to live out of a backpack anymore. Wouldn't have to stack my meagre possessions in corners of a tent, hoping they wouldn't get stepped on or lost in the chaos of communal living.

"It is indeed," Paul confirmed. "I know it's practically empty now, but between Luke and Beatrix, I'm sure it won't be more than a few days before you'll have yourself a fully stocked and self-sufficient little home here."

Home.

The word caught in my chest, sharp and sweet and complicated. This wasn't home — couldn't be home, not when home was soon to be a new house in Kingston with Brianne and the future we'd been building together. But it was something. A foothold. A base from which I might be able to think and plan and find my way back to the life that was waiting for me.

"You can move your belongings in as soon as you like," Paul continued. "I'll head back to the Drop Zone to wait for Beatrix, but there's really not much more that can be done there right now."

"And what will become of the tents?" I asked.

Paul's response came without hesitation, the answer clearly already worked through. "Until we get the first sheds operational, we'll use the tents for more storage. I think it's safest if we can avoid sleeping in them as much as possible."

"Can't really argue with that."

The memory of the shadow panther attack surfaced unbidden. A tent offered no protection against something that wanted to kill you. A caravan wasn't a fortress, but at least it had walls. Walls that might buy time, might create noise, might give you a few extra seconds to wake and react and fight.

Paul moved toward the door, then stopped on the first step, turning back with an expression that had shifted to something softer.

"Henri seems to be comfortable with you. Are you happy to look after him in Jamie's absence?"

At the sound of his name, Henri raised his head from the mattress, ears perking briefly before he settled again with the boneless relaxation of a dog who'd decided this new place met his standards.

Something warm spread through my chest — not quite happiness, but something adjacent to it. Connection, maybe. Purpose. The knowledge that someone depended on me, even if that someone was a small dog with a stubborn streak and a tendency to judge.

"Of course," I answered, the words coming easily.

Henri was one of the few bright spots in this nightmare. His presence in my tent — in my caravan, now — was a comfort I hadn't realised I needed until it was offered.

Paul confirmed that I was satisfied with the caravan's location, and together we worked to unhitch it from the ute. The process was simple enough — mechanical tasks that my hands remembered how to do even when my brain felt disconnected from the movements. Lois jumped into the front cab with the easy familiarity of a dog who'd claimed her seat and wasn't giving it up, and then they were gone, the ute disappearing toward the portal in a cloud of dust that hung in the still air long after the sound of the engine had faded.

I stepped back inside the caravan and breathed deeply.

The scent of detergent filled my nostrils — strong, almost aggressive, the chemical smell of cleanliness that suggested the vehicle had been thoroughly scrubbed before arriving here. Someone had cared enough to clean it. To prepare it. To transform it from a stranger's property into something that could become mine.

The freshness of the air, the pristine condition of the surfaces, the absence of dust and dirt and the accumulated grime of survival — it all spoke of possibility. Of new beginnings. Of the chance to build something in the midst of destruction.

I lowered myself onto the mattress beside Henri, my body sinking into the welcoming embrace of cushioning that actually deserved the name. The springs squeaked slightly under my weight, a small protest that sounded more like greeting than complaint.

"It does feel nice to have our very own space, doesn't it," I said softly, my hand finding the warm fur behind Henri's ear and scratching gently.

Henri's tail thumped once against the mattress — acknowledgment, agreement, or perhaps just appreciation for the attention.

"We'll be safer in here."

The words hung in the air, a promise I desperately wanted to believe. Walls between us and the darkness. A door that could lock. A space that was ours, defensible, something more than canvas and hope.

For the first time since I'd arrived in Clivilius, I felt something that might have been the beginning of security.

It was fragile. It was probably temporary. But it was something.