Where Medicine Meets Mystery
You can't measure a miracle. But you can sit beside it, fists clenched, trying not to scream. Joel gasps back to life in the lagoon and Glenda watches from the bank—restrained, powerless, her medical training useless against something that defies every textbook she's ever read. Then Paul shows her his arm: grey, necrotic tissue spreading from where Joel grabbed him. She has one idea. The river water burned when it touched the wound. It also healed it. Somewhere between resurrection and wet bandages, between bridge plans and deflected questions, Glenda begins to understand: this world plays by different rules.
The sound cuts through the stillness like a blade. A gasp. Not one of theirs. Joel's.
Glenda's heart seizes. She pronounced him dead. Sutured his throat. Felt the absence of a pulse. Yet here he is, breathing again in Jamie's arms, the lagoon holding him like something sacred.
She wants to run to him, assess vitals, demand answers. Paul's hand on her arm stops her. Maybe we should just leave them be.
But Paul has his own problem. Three puncture marks on his forearm, the flesh turning grey, spreading like ink in water. The same progression as Jamie's wound—too fast, too wrong.
The river water burns when she forces his arm under. It also heals.
Later, hauling supplies in the relentless heat, Paul describes his vision: a wooden bridge with turrets. Glenda hears something else beneath his words. A way forward. A path to finding her father.
We both have our reasons for building that bridge.
