What a Pen Can Prove

"Sometimes the most defiant act isn't a grand gesture—it's a man with a broken finger and a damaged throat refusing to let someone else write his own address."

The weight of our situation hung heavily in the air as I stepped back into the tent, the gaze of Joel searching my face for answers or perhaps reassurance that I couldn't fully provide.

"Luke's latest fuck-up."

I muttered the words, the summary of our predicament distilled into a moment of raw honesty between us. The bitterness on my tongue matched the bitterness in my heart.

Joel frowned, a small crease forming between his brows. It was a look that tugged at my heartstrings, a silent testament to the confusion and upheaval he'd been forced to endure—dying, resurrection, broken fingers, damaged throat, and now more strangers in his recovery space.

I sighed heavily. The sound seemed to come from somewhere deeper than my lungs.

Settling down on the edge of the mattress, I noticed the plate of beans that remained and began to pick at the last few remaining. My appetite was as lost as my sense of sanity, but the motions of eating felt like something normal to cling to.

"I'm sorry," I told Joel, my voice laced with a mixture of regret and frustration that I couldn't quite untangle.

Several deep sighs followed, each one a feeble attempt to release the tension that had built up inside me like pressure in a sealed vessel.

"We shouldn't be here. We should be…" My voice trailed off, the words too painful to complete. Too laden with the weight of unfulfilled promises and stolen choices.

We should be in Hobart. Getting to know each other properly. Going for coffee. Having conversations that don't involve resurrection or broken fingers or strangers appearing through inter-dimensional portals.

The flap of the tent rustled, and Paul entered, breaking the fragile moment that had been forming between us.

"Sorry. Need to get some paper."

He announced, disturbing the tentative peace with his presence. His intrusion felt unwelcome—another reminder of the reality we were trying to escape, even if just for a moment.

I eyed him suspiciously as he rummaged through a small bag of supplies, my frustration bubbling up inside me again.

"Oh, and I need Joel's address too," he added, as if it were the most natural request in the world.

"What for?" I barked, unable to contain my irritation. The question came out harsher than I intended, fuelled by the helplessness that gnawed at my insides. Paul's interruption had thwarted my attempt to find solace in the quiet company of my son.

Paul turned to face me, his eyes narrowing slightly in a challenge that suggested he wasn't going to be intimidated by my tone.

"So Luke can bring him some fresh clothes," he said flatly, the logic of the request hanging in the air between us.

Despite my initial resistance, the sense of it seeped through my frustration. Joel had nothing—had arrived in this dimension with only the clothes on his back, bloodstained and inadequate. He needed fresh clothing. Luke could get it. The system, however much I hated relying on Luke for anything, would actually help my son.

With a reluctant nod, I motioned for Paul to hand over the pen and paper.

Turning to Joel, I asked, "Do you want to try writing?"

There was a part of me that hoped this small task might offer him a sense of involvement, a way to participate in his own care rather than being purely a passive recipient of everyone else's efforts.

"Yeah," Joel croaked, his voice raspy but carrying determination.

I watched as he struggled to grip the pen, his fingers trembling slightly with the effort. The injured finger was bandaged, but his other hand wasn't much steadier—his entire body still recovering from the impossible journey back from death.

I placed the paper before him, steadying it with one hand while I gently guided his with the other. The contact felt intimate, significant—father helping son with a task that should have been simple but had become an achievement.

There was something profoundly heart-wrenching about this simple act. A poignant reminder of the resilience and vulnerability wrapped up in his battered frame. My son, fighting to accomplish something as basic as writing his address. The determination on his face, the concentration, the refusal to give up despite the trembling.

This is what Luke's done. Reduced my son to struggling with a pen. But Joel's still trying. Still fighting. That's something.

Joel's handwriting was shaky but legible—the letters forming slowly, one by one, each one a small victory of will over limitation. The address took shape on the paper, a connection to a life outside this red wasteland.

"Thanks," Paul said, collecting the paper once Joel had finished, his voice carrying a note of gratitude that felt genuine despite our earlier tension. "Should have it by the end of the day."

"Thanks," Joel echoed, lifting his gaze to meet Paul's. There was a flicker of something in his eyes—perhaps gratitude, perhaps the relief of having contributed in some small way to his own survival.

"No worries," Paul replied, his demeanour softening as he turned to leave the tent. The flap closed behind him, leaving us enveloped in the quiet once more.

As the silence settled around us, I found myself reflecting on the exchange. There was a certain solace in the small act—in Joel's determination to participate, to be more than a patient requiring care.

It was a poignant reminder that, despite everything—despite Luke's betrayals, despite Karen's grating optimism, despite the constant interruptions and the impossible circumstances—we were still here.

Still fighting.

Still holding on.

That has to count for something.