What Remains Unfetched

“Love begs you to stay, but survival orders you to go—and between the two, you’re torn in half.”

"Glenda! Paul!" My voice cracked across the open space, louder, sharper than I intended. It jarred against the tranquil murmur of the river, startling even me.

They turned, their conversation cut short, and I saw them idly standing at the water's edge, shoulders relaxed in a rare moment of reprieve. Paul had found a flat stone and was skipping it across the river's surface—one, two, three bounces before it sank—whilst Glenda watched with the weary amusement of someone who had needed even this small distraction.

But the urgency coursing through me didn't allow for reprieve. My steps hammered against the earth, the bags heavy on my shoulders, shoes raising faint clouds of dust that clung to the air behind me like a trail of anxiety made visible.

They caught it—the weight in my tone, the frantic pulse beneath the words. Without hesitation, they fell in step beside me, their easy distraction replaced by alertness as we made for the tent. No questions yet. Just movement, just the shared understanding that something required immediate attention.

The bags slapped against my hip as I walked, their contents shifting and clinking together. Three bags stuffed with medical supplies, everything I'd been able to gather from Glenda's examination room. It should have felt like triumph—and it did, partly—but beneath that satisfaction lurked the knowledge that it wasn't enough. The asterisked items still waited at the shared supply room, and without them, everything else might prove useless.

Crossing the threshold of the tent, the change was immediate. Outside, there had been the soft rush of water, the warmth of late afternoon light; here, in the dim enclosure, was the unvarnished reality of suffering.

Jamie lay there, his body taut with discomfort, his face etched with a vulnerability that no pride could conceal. He swiped clumsily at the tears streaking his cheeks, trying to erase them, as though denial could hold back what his body betrayed. The gesture was so achingly human, so desperately Jamie—still trying to maintain some dignity even when pain had stripped him of everything else.

The sight landed heavy in me, a weight that pressed against my chest and made breathing difficult. My anger, my doubts, my lingering hurt—all of it was silenced by the rawness of his pain. The betrayal with Ben, the confession that had shattered my trust, the fury that had made me shove him in the desert—none of it mattered in this moment.

Compassion flared, sharp and urgent, mingling with an aching resolve. Whatever else had passed between us, I could not stand idle before this. I could not let him suffer whilst nursing grievances that suddenly seemed petty in the face of his mortality.

"You okay?" I asked gently, my voice stripped of the sharpness it had carried outside. I crouched just inside the entrance, the bags slipping from my hands and landing with a muted thud. Their contents clattered softly against one another, a fragile chorus promising salvation—or at least the hope of it.

"Yeah." The word left Jamie in a whisper, thin and broken, a single syllable that cost him visible effort. "Just in a lot of pain."

"You'll be right now," I said, forcing steadiness into my tone, layering it with confidence I barely believed myself. I leaned closer, my words pitched as a promise I refused to break. "I've got you some strong pain medication."

Even as I spoke, I felt the tremor in my chest—fear and hope colliding like weather fronts. I wanted him to hear certainty, to feel it, even if it was something I could only conjure through will alone. If believing hard enough could make something true, I would believe until my mind cracked from the effort.

The bags at my feet held the promise: analgesics, antibiotics, gauze, antiseptic. Tools for healing. Weapons against the infection that was trying to claim him.

Glenda's voice cut cleanly through the tight air of the tent, sharp but not unkind, directing order. "Grab that spare blanket. Spread it across the floor over there for me," she instructed, her finger steady as it indicated a bare stretch along the back wall.

Paul moved instantly. He reached for the rolled blanket—one of the supplies we'd brought through in earlier trips, intended for sleeping arrangements but now repurposed for medicine—his actions brisk and unquestioning.

In seconds, the dull ground was covered, a new workspace conjured out of nothing.

My attention, though, remained fixed on Jamie. I leaned in, taking his hand carefully in mine. His palm was clammy, slick with fever-sweat, his grip weak in a way that frightened me more than I wanted to admit. But even so the contact steadied me. I gave a gentle squeeze, hoping it would speak louder than words ever could—that he would feel through my touch the reassurance I struggled to articulate.

His fingers twitched against mine, the barest attempt at returning the pressure. It was enough. It had to be enough.

"We'll be okay," I told him, keeping my gaze locked on his. My voice carried a conviction I forced into being, willing it to root in him as much as in myself. In that fragile look between us, for a heartbeat, the rest of the world seemed to fall away—the tent, the supplies, Glenda and Paul moving around us. Just us. Just this moment of connection that transcended the hurt and the fear.

We'll be okay. Not just him. Us. Because whatever happened to Jamie happened to me too. We were bound together, for better or worse, and his survival was my survival. His pain was my pain. His recovery would be my redemption.

Meanwhile, Glenda worked with quiet mastery. She knelt at the blanket Paul had set, arranging the medical supplies with swift, practised motions. What had been a jumble only moments ago transformed under her hands into ordered rows—vials, packets, bandages, all laid with deliberate care.

Her focus was total, her discipline apparent even here in this makeshift sanctuary. She picked up each item, examined it briefly, then placed it in a specific location on the blanket as though following some internal map that only she could see. Watching her was oddly humbling; she seemed to breathe stability into the space, her composure a balm against the storm that had threatened to consume me outside.

This was what she'd been trained for, I reminded myself. Years of medical school, humanitarian missions in Borneo and South America, emergency rooms and triage tents. To her, this chaos was simply another day's work—challenging, yes, but not unfamiliar. That competence, that unshakeable professionalism, was exactly why I'd risked everything to bring her here.

"I'm pretty sure I've got all the items on the list without an asterisk," I said, my words breaking the stillness. Hope threaded through my voice, but so did a current of doubt, a pre-emptive apology for what I hadn't yet managed to deliver.

"But I'll have to go back now and check the supply room for the rest," I added, my weight shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. The admission left a bitter taste in my mouth, my reluctance laid bare in the nervous sway of my body. I didn't want to leave. Every instinct screamed against it—against walking away from Jamie when he lay here suffering, against trusting his care to others whilst I ventured into danger.

But wanting to stay and being able to stay were different things entirely.

"Yes, I will need the antiseptic and antibiotics," Glenda replied, her tone resolute. She didn't look up from her work, her hands still moving with seamless confidence as she sorted syringes by size, arranged vials by label. "I can't dress Jamie's wounds properly without them. Go," she urged, her eyes finally meeting mine, steady and sure.

Her words were firm, but beneath them ran something quieter, softer: empathy, as though she understood what it cost me to step away again. She wasn't dismissing my attachment to Jamie—she was acknowledging it even whilst insisting that I overcome it. The greater love, in this moment, required leaving.

Beside me, Jamie's grip tightened suddenly, his fingers clutching at mine with surprising strength for a body so clearly ravaged. It was wordless, but the meaning rang out louder than any cry—don't leave me. His face was etched with pain, every line deepened by the strain of holding on, of fighting against the fever and the infection and the terror of being left alone.

A moan broke from his throat, guttural and raw, reverberating through the confined space of the tent. The sound twisted in me, feeding the urgency that already throbbed like a pulse beneath my skin. It was primal, that sound—the kind of noise humans make when civilised restraint has been stripped away, when pain has become the only reality.

He shifted against the bedding, restless, as though no position could ease him. It was unbearable to watch, to witness how relentless agony reduced him to constant motion, trapped in a body that gave him no reprieve. Every adjustment seemed to bring fresh waves of discomfort, his face contorting with each movement.

Don't leave me. The words he wasn't saying, the plea his grip conveyed.

"Just try and relax." Glenda's voice cut in, firm yet steady, its cadence like a hand pressed gently against rising panic. Though the words were aimed at Jamie, they struck me too, a reminder that calm was something we all had to cling to, even when everything in us wanted to scream.

She glanced at me then, her eyes sharp, insistent. No sound left her lips, but the message was unmistakable: Go.

I nodded, unable to shape words, my throat thick with emotion I couldn't afford to express. The gesture was more than agreement—it was a vow, silent and binding, to return with what she needed, with what Jamie needed, before it was too late.

I'll be back. I promise. Just hold on.

As I rose to leave, my gaze faltered, catching on him one last time. The image seared itself into me like a brand, something I would carry with me through the Portal and into the hospital corridors.

Jamie's forehead glistened with sweat, beads forming and running down in uneven rivulets, as though his suffering itself had marked him visible. His chest rose and fell in shallow, ragged pulls, each breath sounding like a battle hard fought and barely won. The welt—angry, swollen, grotesque—seeped continuously, staining skin already inflamed and tender with the ugly colours of infection.

It was obscene, that wound. Something that belonged in a nightmare rather than on the body of the man I loved. A wound that seemed to pulse with its own malevolent life, feeding on Jamie's strength, growing stronger as he grew weaker.

The sight pinned me in place for a moment, hollowing me out. It wasn't just his pain—it was the fragility of all of us, the reminder of how thin the line was between surviving and succumbing. One wrong decision, one failed mission, one supply I couldn't find—and that line would snap, and Jamie would fall into the darkness waiting on the other side.

With effort, I turned, forcing myself through the tent's flap. The air outside hit me differently now—sharper, more immediate, every sound louder. The river's murmur seemed almost accusatory, as though even nature was questioning why I was walking away from someone who needed me.

I carried the image with me, the imprint of his torment carved deep into my memory. It was more than recollection; it was fuel. Every droplet of his sweat, every tremor of his body, every ragged breath demanded haste. Demanded that I move faster, think sharper, take whatever risks were necessary.

With that weight pressing me forward, I moved with renewed urgency, my steps quickening, driven by the unshakeable resolve that I had to return. Failure was not an option—not whilst Jamie's life balanced so precariously on what I could carry back in my hands.

I would return with what he needed.

I would not let him die.