What You See Is What You Get

“It’s a terrible thing to realise you’ve arrived—and it isn’t what you packed for.”

Standing there, the harsh Clivilian sun beating down on my borrowed clothes, I couldn’t help but feel a rising tide of frustration swelling within me. The heat pressed against my skin like a weight, and the coarse fabric I wore scratched at my neck and wrists, an ever-present reminder that nothing here was mine—not the clothes, not the ground beneath my feet, not even the air I breathed.

The dust was relentless. It clung to every surface, sifted into every crease and seam, coating me in a thin, gritty film that made me long for the clean, predictable order of my former life. A life where things made sense. Where people behaved rationally. Where portals and deserts and spiders in terrariums weren’t part of my daily reality.

When Luke finally sauntered back into camp, his gait loose and casual, I felt my blood begin to boil. That irritating half-smile of his—so oblivious, so unearned—landed like a slap to my patience. And before I could even form the words, it was Paul—dear, sensible Paul—who gave voice to the storm that had been building in me.

“What's taken you so long?” he demanded, stepping forward, unable to keep the bite from my tone. “We've been waiting ages for you!”

Luke, to his credit—or perhaps to his continued insolence—mumbled something that might have passed for an apology, though he didn’t dare meet my eyes. My hands clenched instinctively at my sides. The audacity! How dare he treat this like some minor inconvenience, like he hadn’t uprooted our lives with the casual flick of a wrist?

I opened my mouth, ready to give him the full weight of my fury, but he cut me off without even realising, his attention drifting—as if bored—down to the clothes I wore.

“Whose clothes?” he asked, his lips twitching with that infuriating hint of amusement, as though this entire situation were some elaborate joke and I the unwitting punchline.

My jaw tightened. My shoulders squared. And the restraint I’d clung to all morning began to wear dangerously thin.

Before I could formulate a response, Karen emerged from behind Luke, causing him to startle with a small jolt. A petty flicker of satisfaction stirred in my chest—just for a moment, I took pleasure in his discomfort. But it was fleeting. Karen’s voice, sharp and clear, cut through the thick air between us.

“I've lent her some of mine, since you were taking so long,” she said, her tone edged with reproach, as if she were chastising a tardy schoolboy rather than addressing a grown man.

I stiffened at her words. The implication that I should be grateful to her, that I was somehow beholden to her generosity, rubbed me raw. It wasn’t gratitude I felt—it was humiliation. I hadn't asked for her help. I hadn’t had a choice.

But Luke, ever the charmer, took it in stride. He turned towards her with that infuriatingly calm demeanour, nodding graciously as though she’d bestowed upon me some grand favour.

“Thanks, Karen. That's very kind of you,” he said, voice thick with the sort of syrupy politeness that made my skin itch.

I rolled my eyes, barely resisting the urge to let out an audible scoff. Kind, indeed. As if kindness had anything to do with it. As if she hadn't stared at me with thinly veiled disdain the entire time I’d stood half-dressed in her cluttered caravan, beneath the gaze of those revolting spiders.

But Karen wasn’t done.

“I'm not sure that your mother agrees that it was a suitable conversation,” she added coolly, her expression set, her eyes steady as they met mine.

My cheeks flamed. A hot, prickling heat crept up my neck, spreading across my face in a wave of mortification. How dare she presume to speak on my behalf? How dare she frame my discomfort as disapproval, casting herself as the misunderstood party in some imagined moral debate?

My lips parted, the retort forming fast and sharp on the tip of my tongue—but Paul jumped in before I could unleash it.

“Anyway,” he said, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade through butter. “We're expecting the first of the sheds to be completed today, so why don't you bring us some of the food storage from home?”

“Food storage?” Karen asked, her voice a blend of curiosity and confusion, her brows drawing together as though the phrase had been lifted from a foreign language.

At the mention of our food storage, a warm swell of pride rose in my chest. Finally, something that made sense—something solid and familiar in this strange, shifting world. It was more than just practical preparation; it was a reflection of our devotion, our obedience, our unwavering belief in divine counsel.

“Our church leaders have always taught the diligent Saints to have twelve months of food storage,” I said, turning to Noah with a smile that was equal parts fondness and vindication. “It's always been Noah's pride and joy. We've been ever so obedient.”

Karen gave me a look, one of those tight-lipped expressions that didn’t quite conceal the doubt beneath. I could see the wheels turning behind her eyes, could sense the quiet calculations—was she impressed? Bemused? Judging us? Likely a bit of all three.

But before her silence could stretch too long, Jerome chimed in, his voice light, almost teasing.

“Seriously, she's not lying. There's literally an entire room dedicated just to food storage.”

Noah, not to be left out, added his own note of earnest pride. “There are tins of vegetables, pasta varieties of almost every kind, containers of flour and sugar, and—”

Karen cut him off with a wry grin, one eyebrow raised. “Well, it looks as though that obedience of yours is about to actually pay off.”

A flicker of satisfaction passed through me at her words. For once, something about our background—our way of life—had proven not just relevant but valuable. It felt like a small but meaningful vindication, a moment of clarity in a fog of uncertainty.

Paul turned to Luke, his voice shifting back to the practical. “Karen's been busy emptying a lot of shopping trolleys from last night's raid. Could you take them back to Earth and fill them with food stuff?”

Luke’s eyes sparkled, a rare seriousness settling over his features. “Yeah, that should work,” he said, nodding with uncharacteristic focus.

“Jerome and I will collect the empty trolleys and bring them to the Portal for you,” Karen offered, already pivoting towards action.

Jerome let out an exaggerated sigh, the weight of his young adult reluctance written in every exaggerated movement.

I didn't let it slide.

“Go and make yourself useful,” I prodded, my tone firm but laced with encouragement. Sometimes, a mother’s guidance had to come with a nudge.

As Karen and Jerome set off to collect the trolleys, I found myself alone with Noah and Paul, the air between us thick with unspoken questions and an oppressive sense of displacement. My mind reeled with the implications of our situation—how far we had come, how abruptly everything we knew had been severed.

Noah, I knew, would find a way to adapt. He always did. He would roll up his sleeves and look for ways to be of service, to offer structure in a world that now felt anything but. That was his nature—steady, pragmatic, unwavering. But for me, the prospect of living shoulder to shoulder with these non-churchgoing folks, of navigating their secular habits and irreverent ways, stirred a deep unease within me. They didn’t speak our language—not truly. Not the sacred, careful language of reverence and obedience. Not the shared rhythm of scripture study and Relief Society meetings and family prayer.

“Where’s our house again?” I asked, my voice emerging smaller than I had intended, uncertain and childlike against the vast silence of the Clivilian plains.

Noah stepped a little closer, the quiet shuffle of his borrowed shoes on the dust a comfort in itself. His presence grounded me, as it always had. But I could see the same questions flickering behind his eyes, the same yearning for familiarity—for the porch swing, the home teachers, the rows of food storage that had once promised safety and order.

Paul looked stricken, like a deer caught in the glare of oncoming truth. I could almost see the words forming and dying on his tongue, his mind scrambling for the gentlest way to say what couldn’t be softened.

“What you see is what you get,” he said finally, and the words dropped into the space between us like a stone in a well—heavy, echoing, final.

They hit me with all the force of reality. No tidy house with a green lawn. No ward meetings. No kitchen stocked with familiar crockery and labelled shelves. Just dust and tents, half-constructed sheds and strangers. This—this bare, dry, unsettling place—was our new life.

I felt the sting of tears rise unbidden, clouding my vision, catching in the back of my throat. For a moment, I could hardly breathe for the grief of it all.

And yet, beneath the sorrow, beneath the ache and the anger, something deeper stirred—something quieter. A knowing. I had covenanted to trust the Lord, to walk the path even when it twisted through wilderness. Perhaps especially then.

All I could do now was cling to that faith like a lifeline, to trust that the Lord had a plan for us—even if it lay beyond the horizon of my understanding.