We Don't Have a Doctor

"Spending all morning complaining about my own problems taught me nothing—seeing what Jamie had been hiding taught me everything."

The Portal, a marvel of swirling colours and energetic sparks, sprang to life in the distance. Its mesmerising display was a rare beacon of hope and wonder in our otherwise bleak surroundings — a tear in the fabric of reality that should have been impossible but had become, in the space of forty-eight hours, almost familiar. The larger streams of light collided with one another, sending sparks flying into the air in a breathtaking spectacle that reminded me, absurdly, of the finale at a New Year's fireworks display. Except this wasn't celebration. This was something else entirely.

"Luke?"

Jamie turned to me, his question hanging in the air, laden with hope and anticipation. The single word carried so much weight — the expectation of rescue, of supplies, of something that might make our situation marginally less dire.

I knew the question was rhetorical, a shared acknowledgment of the one variable in our predicament that remained constant. My brother was the only one who could open that doorway between worlds. The only one who held the key to our prison — or our salvation, depending on how charitable I was feeling at any given moment. Yet I couldn't stop myself from responding.

"I guess so," I answered, the words feeling inadequate even as they left my mouth. Who else could it possibly be?

We stood there, transfixed, as the small truck made its way through the Portal, its emergence into our world as surreal as ever. The vehicle materialised from the swirling light like something being born. True to our suspicions, Luke was perched high in the driver's seat, a sight that somehow managed to blend the mundane with the extraordinary.

My younger brother. The mystic. The dreamer who had spent our entire childhood hearing voices I couldn't hear, seeing things I couldn't see. Now here he was, driving a truck through a hole in reality like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Were you expecting anything else?" I found myself asking Jamie, my voice tinged with a mix of surprise and scepticism. In my mind, Luke's role had been to retrieve the truck I had emptied, not to arrive with another load. Besides, my understanding was that everything we had initially requested had already been delivered. The supplies at the Drop Zone — chaotic and overwhelming as they were — represented what we'd asked for. What more could there be?

"Oh," Jamie responded, the gears turning in his head. "It could be the tents Luke said he had ordered."

His speculation made sense, yet the method of delivery seemed excessive for something as simple as tents. Then again, nothing about our situation could be classified as simple anymore.

"In a truck?"

My question hung between us, a reflection of the puzzlement that mirrored my own thoughts. Tents didn't require trucks. Tents came in boxes. Boxes could be carried.

"Who knows," Jamie retorted dryly, a hint of resignation in his voice. "This is Luke we're talking about, remember."

His reminder was unnecessary; Luke's unconventional methods were well-documented in our shared experiences. My brother had never done anything the straightforward way when a complicated, mystically-influenced alternative was available. Even as children, Luke had been the one who took the long route home because he'd dreamed about a particular tree, who made decisions based on feelings he couldn't explain but trusted absolutely.

"True," I conceded, acknowledging the unpredictability that seemed to be a hallmark of our plight. Expecting logic from Luke was like expecting a piano to play itself — technically possible under certain circumstances, but not something you should count on.

The truck halted abruptly, a mere ten metres from the Portal, its sudden stop sending a cloud of dust swirling into the air. The engine died with a cough that sounded almost relieved.

"You're not even going to drive it into the Drop Zone?"

Jamie's voice carried a mix of annoyance and disbelief. His expectation that the truck would be brought closer seemed reasonable under the circumstances — we were exhausted, injured, and the Drop Zone was a considerable distance away. Every metre mattered when your body felt like it had been wrung out and left to dry.

As I reached out, my fingers brushing against the keys that dangled from Luke's grasp, his reaction was swift and unexpectedly sharp.

"No!" He barked, pulling away before hurrying to the back of the truck. The word cracked through the air like a whip, so unlike Luke's usual dreamy demeanour that it took me a moment to process.

Without hesitation, Jamie and I followed, our curiosity piqued by Luke's abrupt manner. Something was wrong. Or at least, something was urgent in ways we didn't yet understand.

"But..." I began, the question dying on my lips as Luke cut me off.

"There's no time to move it. The delivery guy is in the toilet. We only have a matter of minutes to get all these boxes out!"

The urgency in Luke's voice was palpable, a clear indication that the window of opportunity was narrow and closing fast. I tried to picture it — some poor delivery driver on the other side of reality, answering nature's call whilst Luke hijacked his vehicle through a dimensional gateway. The absurdity of it almost made me laugh. Almost.

"Shit!"

Jamie's expletive was a succinct summary of our collective sentiment. The simplicity of our task had suddenly escalated into a race against time, a frantic effort to unload the truck's contents before the delivery driver emerged from the bathroom to find his vehicle — and his cargo — vanished into thin air.

"Tents?" I asked, needing confirmation even as my hands were already moving toward the truck's rear.

"Yeah," Luke confirmed.

With a swift motion, he swung the truck's back doors open. The clang of metal on metal was so loud in the quiet of our surroundings, reverberating through the air and setting my ears ringing with a sound akin to an endless roll of thunder.

"Shit, Luke!" Jamie exclaimed, his hands flying up to cover his ears in a vain attempt to shield himself from the sudden onslaught of noise.

I found myself doing likewise, pressing my palms against my ears until the ringing subsided to a tolerable level.

"Oops." Came Luke's sheepish reply, a single word that did little to capture the discomfort his actions had caused. Classic Luke — causing chaos and offering a single-syllable apology as if that somehow balanced the scales.

Unperturbed by our reactions, Luke reached up to grab the metal pole just inside the door, using it to hoist himself into the truck with ease. I watched him for a moment, marvelling at how the most mundane actions had taken on a new significance in our altered reality.

"How many are there again?" I asked, my voice louder than necessary in the aftermath of the noise.

I reached up to take the first box from Luke, the weight of it surprising in its heft. Tents, apparently, were heavier than I'd imagined. Or perhaps everything was heavier now — my arms, my legs, my capacity for optimism.

"Three," Luke answered, his voice steady and matter-of-fact as he passed another box down.

"At least that will give us something to do," I commented, tossing the words in Jamie's direction with a hint of irony.

Our days were filled with tasks, yet the arrival of the tents presented a tangible project, something with a clear beginning and end. Not like the concrete disaster currently hardening into a permanent monument to our incompetence. Not like the endless, shapeless challenge of simply surviving.

Jamie reached out to take another box from Luke, his movements deliberate but lacking enthusiasm.

"True," he agreed, the word heavy with resignation rather than excitement.

I noticed him wince slightly as he took the weight, a flicker of something crossing his face that disappeared before I could identify it.

The three of us worked quickly, efficiently unloading all the tent boxes from the truck. We didn't bother moving them to the Drop Zone straight away, a decision born out of practicality rather than laziness. Watching Luke select each box with a haphazard carelessness — grabbing whatever was closest, shoving things toward us without checking labels or contents — it was clear they would require some sorting before we could even think about setting them up.

"Thanks," Luke huffed, his breath coming out in short, laboured puffs as he jumped down from the back of the truck.

With a quick gesture, he indicated for us to take care of the back doors while he made his way to the front of the vehicle, disappearing from sight with a purposeful stride.

"You coming back soon?"

Jamie's voice carried a mix of hope and resignation as he called after Luke, the mention of hunger adding a layer of urgency to his question. But there was no reply, Luke's silence speaking volumes. He was already gone — mentally if not yet physically — his attention fixed on whatever came next in his grand plan for Clivilius.

Jamie and I exchanged a glance, a silent communication that conveyed our shared expectations — or lack thereof — regarding Luke's unpredictability.

Typical chaotic Luke, I mused internally, as we managed to close the truck doors far more gently than they had been opened. The metal latched with a soft click that felt almost apologetic after the earlier assault on our eardrums.

"Odd," Jamie voiced his observation, the word hanging in the air between us as Luke and the truck vanished as quickly as they had arrived. One moment solid, the next dissolving into the swirling colours of the Portal like sugar into tea.

I picked up the corner of one of the larger boxes, my curiosity piqued.

"What is?" I inquired, genuinely unsure of what Jamie found strange this time. In a world where trucks materialised from dimensional gateways, "odd" had become a relative concept.

"The Portal is still open," he replied, his gaze fixed on the mesmerising display of colours that danced within the frame of the Portal.

He was right — usually, the aperture closed within seconds of Luke's departure, the swirling lights collapsing in on themselves like a flower closing at dusk. But this time, it remained active, pulsing with that otherworldly energy that made my skin prickle with something between fascination and fear.

"Luke must be coming back then," I reasoned, trying to inject a note of optimism into the situation. It was a small hope, but hope nonetheless in the face of our many uncertainties. Perhaps he'd bring food. Perhaps he'd bring answers. Perhaps he'd bring something that might actually help us survive this nightmare he'd created.

Jamie, drawn like a moth to a flame, stopped just an inch away from the vibrant display. The colours played across his face, painting him in shades that shouldn't exist — purples that hurt to look at, greens that seemed to hum with their own frequency.

Oh no, here we go again, I thought, a sense of dread settling in as I anticipated what was coming next.

True to form, Jamie extended his hand towards the swirling colours, a gesture born of an irresistible combination of curiosity and the faint hope of understanding — or perhaps influencing — the Portal's mysteries. I had seen him do this before. Each time, the result was the same.

I shook my head in resignation.

Why does Jamie insist on trying when it just makes him more and more frustrated?

It was a question I had asked myself countless times, each instance ending in the same predictable frustration for Jamie. The Portal didn't respond to him. It didn't respond to me either, but at least I'd stopped trying. Jamie seemed unable to accept the boundary, kept testing it like a tongue probing a sore tooth.

Dragging the box along the ground — my arms too tired to lift it properly — I set my sights on the Drop Zone, determined to at least accomplish the task of moving the supplies, even if everything else around us was shrouded in uncertainty.

"Fuck!"

Jamie's exclamation sliced through the air, an obvious indicator of his failed attempt to interact with the Portal. The word carried layers of frustration that had nothing to do with the Portal itself — frustration at our situation, at Luke, at the cruel joke the universe seemed to be playing on all of us.

"No luck then?" I couldn't help but call out, my words laced with a sarcasm born of familiarity with the routine. I regretted them immediately — Jamie didn't need my commentary on top of everything else.

In response, Jamie's middle finger was all the answer I needed, a silent but eloquent reply that spoke volumes of his irritation.

"Figures," I scoffed under my breath, my attention turning to the second box. The physical exertion of the task at hand was beginning to take its toll, a bead of sweat forming at my forehead a testament to the relentless sun above. My shirt clung to my back in patches, the fabric heavy with perspiration that had nowhere to go in this dry, alien air.

"Where are you taking that?" Jamie's voice sliced through the air, a mix of curiosity and demand that instantly put me on edge. Something in his tone — accusatory, almost — triggered a response I couldn't quite control.

"Why do you care?" My response came out sharper than I intended, a snarky retort flung over my shoulder without pausing to gauge its impact.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Jamie's tone escalated, his footsteps quickening to catch up to me, injecting a note of confrontation into the already tense atmosphere. I could hear the crunch of his boots in the dust, closing the distance between us with aggressive purpose.

I stopped in my tracks, the weight of my earlier words and the exhaustion bearing down on me making my shoulders slump. What was I doing? Jamie wasn't my enemy. He was just as trapped in this nightmare as I was — more so, perhaps, given that he'd been deceived by someone he loved.

"Look, I'm sorry," I said, my voice softer now, tinged with genuine remorse. I shook my head, a mix of frustration at the situation and at myself for snapping. "I'm just tired and my whole body is aching."

The admission felt like weakness, but it was also truth. Every muscle screamed. Every joint protested. My foot throbbed its constant reminder that I was damaged goods operating at diminished capacity.

Jamie's response was a short huff, a sound that seemed to carry all the weight of the world in it. I braced myself, expecting a retort or a continuation of our spat.

"It's okay," Jamie huffed again, his voice unexpectedly softer. "I get it."

His simple acknowledgment acted as a balm, easing the tension that had quickly built between us. The words were ordinary, but in that moment they felt like grace — an extension of understanding I hadn't earned but desperately needed.

I looked up, meeting Jamie's gaze, searching his face for any sign of lingering annoyance or sarcasm. Instead, I found an expression of understanding, perhaps even empathy. He knew what it was to be exhausted beyond reason. He knew what it was to snap at someone who didn't deserve it. We were both learning the same hard lessons in this place.

"That dust storm last night was pretty brutal," Jamie offered, shifting the topic away from our earlier friction. In a gesture that seemed to underscore his point, he lifted his sweaty t-shirt to reveal his chest, marked by a vivid redness and a large welt sitting ominously between his pectoral muscles.

The world stopped.

"What the fuck!"

The exclamation burst from me before I could temper my reaction, my concern overriding any previous irritation. The injury was angry — red and swollen, the skin raised in a way that spoke of serious damage beneath the surface.

"What the hell is that?" I asked, stepping closer, my eyes widening at the sight of the injury. My stomach lurched at the visual — this wasn't a minor scrape or bruise. This was something that needed medical attention. Real medical attention, from real doctors with real equipment. None of which we had.

Jamie's action of letting his top fall back into place was almost dismissive, but the seriousness of what he'd just revealed lingered in the air like smoke.

"I think one of the hot coals struck me," he said, his voice carrying a note of nonchalance that didn't quite mask the underlying discomfort.

"Shit, Jamie! I'm so sorry!"

The words tumbled out, a rush of concern flooding through me. The thought that Jamie had been hurt, and the possibility that I could have been responsible, even indirectly, sent a pang of guilt through me that felt like swallowing broken glass. The fire had been mine. My responsibility. My failed attempt at warmth that had turned into chaos when the dust storm hit.

"I don't think it was you," Jamie replied, his tone reassuring despite the circumstances. "I think it just got caught in a gust of wind."

My head began to spin with a mixture of confusion and guilt.

Why hadn't Jamie told me about his injury earlier?

Here I was, hobbling around all morning, wallowing in self-pity over my foot, and expecting Jamie to shoulder the burden of our workload. I had watched him swing that pickaxe. Watched him clear the ground for foundations. Watched him mix concrete whilst I complained about wheelbarrows and bucket-carrying. And all that time, he'd been carrying a wound that made my burned foot look like a paper cut.

As the realisation dawned on me, my eyes started to water, the guilt burrowing deep into my heart like a splinter working its way toward bone. The sight of Jamie's chest, marked by that vivid, angry welt, was stark visual evidence of the pain he must be in. Pain he'd hidden. Pain he'd endured in silence whilst I catalogued my own suffering like it was the worst thing in the world.

"But you wouldn't have been out there if not for me," I managed to say, my voice barely above a whisper. The words scraped against my throat.

Jamie picked up the corner of the box I had let fall to the ground. His movements were careful, measured — and now I understood why. Every motion must have sent pain radiating through his chest. Every lift, every twist, every breath deeper than shallow must have been an exercise in endurance.

"If we're going to set these up down by the river with the other tent, we may as well take these boxes straight there rather than bother with the Drop Zone," he suggested with a level of calm that seemed almost inhuman under the circumstances.

Practical. Forward-thinking. Refusing to dwell on injury or blame when there was work to be done. Then, without waiting for my response, he turned to walk away.

I stared after him, my disbelief mixed with a rising admiration.

How is he staying so calm?

The question echoed in my mind, especially when his burn seemed far more serious than the minor injury I had been nursing on my foot. I had been treating my wound like a catastrophe, like the defining feature of my existence in this place. Jamie had a coal burn on his chest and was discussing logistics.

"Jamie!" I called out, my voice laced with concern and urgency.

He waved for me to follow him, continuing his stride with a determination that belied the pain he must have been feeling.

"Jamie!" I called out again, my voice louder, more desperate as I hobbled to catch up. My foot protested every rushed step, but suddenly that pain seemed almost insulting to acknowledge.

"You need a doctor!"

The words felt hollow even as I spoke them. A doctor. As if we could just pop down to the local surgery. As if this alien wasteland had a Medicare office tucked behind the next dune.

Jamie whipped around so suddenly, it was as if he had reached his breaking point. The calm facade cracked like ice under pressure, revealing the churning waters beneath.

"We don't have a fucking doctor!" He exclaimed, the harshness of his words cutting through the air between us.

I stopped mid-step, the raw emotion visible in Jamie's eyes, tears swelling up and breaking the façade of calm he had been maintaining. The sight of his vulnerability, so rare and stark, brought a lump to my throat. This was the truth beneath the composure. This was the fear he'd been carrying alongside the pain — the knowledge that there was no help coming, no cavalry on the horizon, no safety net beneath us as we walked this impossible tightrope.

Jamie sniffed deeply, trying to regain control over his emotions, a silent struggle that spoke volumes of his resilience and pain. His jaw tightened. His hands clenched and released at his sides. The tears didn't fall — he wouldn't let them — but they gathered at the edges of his eyes like mourners at a funeral.

Moved by a wave of spontaneous emotion, I closed the distance between us, hobbling over with as much speed as my injured foot would allow. I wrapped my arms around him, drawing him into a close embrace, an attempt to offer comfort in the only way I knew how. Physical connection. Human warmth in a place that seemed designed to make us forget we were human at all.

"I'm so sorry, Jamie," I whispered into his shoulder, my voice thick with emotion. The words felt inadequate — what was sorry worth in the face of injury, exile, fear? But they were all I had. My apology hung incomplete, the rest of it lodged somewhere in my chest, unable to find its way to words.