Walking the short distance to the river felt like a brief escape from the turmoil that had engulfed the tent. As I arrived at the river's edge, I stood there, arms folded tightly across my chest, my stance more a reflection of my internal unease than the chill in the air. The water, gently gurgling past, offered a soothing soundtrack to my tumultuous thoughts. It had to be no more than twenty meters wide at this point, I guessed, my eyes tracing its serpentine path as it meandered through the landscape.

"It's a good spot for a nice bridge," Glenda's voice, soft and unexpected, broke through my reverie.

I gave a little jump, the surprise of her presence snapping me out of my deep thoughts. Turning my head to look at her, I found a small smile tugging at the corners of my mouth, despite the sombre mood that had taken hold of me. "It is," I replied, my voice steadier than I felt.

Glenda moved in beside me, her presence a comforting warmth. "It's oddly beautiful, isn't it?" she observed, her gaze not on the river, but on the larger scene that unfolded before us. The way the late afternoon light danced on the water's surface, the gentle swirls of the dust in the breeze, it all painted a picture of serenity that stood in opposition to the chaos that had unfolded in the tent.

"It is," I replied again, my agreement automatic as I took in the scene anew through her eyes. The beauty of it all, in such an unexpected moment and place, struck me, lending a fleeting sense of normalcy to the otherwise extraordinary circumstances we found ourselves in.

"How are you so relaxed with all of this?" I asked her, my curiosity piqued.

Glenda folded her arms across her chest, mirroring my earlier posture, and shrugged lightly. "I'm a doctor. It's my job to be calm," she said, her tone matter-of-fact yet tinged with a softness that suggested an underlying strength. It was a simple explanation, but one that spoke volumes about her character and the resilience she possessed.

I smiled, a genuine expression of admiration and gratitude for the perspective she brought to our predicament. "Fair call," I acknowledged, the weight of my own worries momentarily lifted by the interaction.

"We will build a bridge," declared Glenda confidently, her voice cutting through the ambient sounds of the river with an assurance that felt both inspiring and jarring against the backdrop of our situation.

"We can't," I found myself saying, almost instinctively, shaking my head in disbelief. The idea seemed as distant as the world we’d left behind—beautiful to imagine but impossible to reach.

"Can't?" Glenda echoed, turning to face me, her eyebrows raised in challenge. "Of course, we can."

"We don't have any materials," I replied, my voice laced with a mixture of frustration and resignation. The lack of materials wasn't my only concern, though it was the most tangible. Beneath the surface, a sea of doubts swirled. Even if we did have the materials, the task of building a bridge loomed like a mountain before us—daunting, insurmountable. I had no idea where we would even begin. The engineering, the construction, the planning... it was all foreign territory.

"Luke will get them for us," she said, nudging my crossed arms with her elbow, a light touch that carried the weight of her conviction. Her confidence was unyielding, a fortress against my doubts.

"And I thought you were the optimistic one." Her words, delivered with a playful smirk, were a gentle rebuke, a reminder of the roles we had seemingly swapped in the face of adversity.

My eyes narrowed in thought, not in skepticism but in contemplation. Her unwavering belief, her ability to see beyond the immediate obstacles, was a beacon in the fog of my uncertainty. "I am," I finally said, the words emerging slowly, deliberately.

"Glenda! Paul!" Luke's voice, edged with urgency, sliced through the quiet murmur of the afternoon air.

"Come," Glenda beckoned, her voice a mixture of command and invitation. I couldn't help but smile at her words, finding solace in her confidence and determination. It was comfortably different to the atmosphere that Jamie often cultivated with his never-ending supply of criticism and discouragement. Glenda's presence was like a lighthouse guiding ships through a stormy sea—her resolve, a welcome breath of fresh air.

We followed Luke inside the tent, the fabric flaps parting to reveal a scene that tugged at the heartstrings. I caught sight of Jamie hastily wiping away tears from his face—a rare glimpse into his vulnerability.

"You okay?" Luke's concern was palpable as he dropped the bags he was carrying, his actions punctuating the urgency of his query. He rushed to Jamie's side.

"Yeah," Jamie sniffed, his voice breaking through the mask of toughness he so often wore. "Just in a lot of pain."

"You'll be right now," Luke assured, his tone gentle yet filled with an unspoken promise. "I've got you some strong pain medication."

"Grab that spare blanket and spread it across the floor over there for me," Glenda instructed, her gaze locking onto a blank space along the backside of the tent. I moved to comply, my actions automatic, driven by a desire to be useful in a moment filled with so much uncertainty.

As I laid the blanket out, creating a makeshift workspace, I watched Glenda with a sense of awe. She began to sort through the bags of medical supplies with a methodical precision, each movement deliberate and purposeful. The items were placed down on the blanket before her, transformed from mere objects into tools of healing under her skilled hands.

"I'm pretty sure I've got all the items on the list without an asterisk," Luke said, his voice a mixture of hope and hesitation. "But I'll have to go back now and check the supply room for the rest."

"Yes. I will need the antiseptic and antibiotics. I can't dress Jamie's wounds properly without them. Go," Glenda insisted, her tone brooking no argument. Her focus was laser-sharp, the urgency of her request underlined by the critical nature of the supplies.

Jamie moaned again, a sound that cut through me, a visceral reminder of his pain and our collective vulnerability. He shifted his weight, seeking a fraction of relief in a new position.

"Just try and relax," Glenda's voice was soft yet firm. "Not much longer now and I'll have something to take the pain away and help you sleep." Her words were a promise, a beacon of hope in the shadow of discomfort.

Jamie exhaled loudly, his breath a release of more than just air—a release of tension, of fear, perhaps even a surrender to the care he was under.

Well, if you don't need me, Glenda, I'll go and see if I can finish getting this other tent up," I said, keen to move along, to find a task that would not just occupy my hands but also offer a distraction from the helplessness that gnawed at the edges of my mind.

"That's fine," Glenda replied, her attention already turning back to Jamie, to the critical task at hand. "I'll come and help you when I've sorted Jamie.”

Her response, though brief, carried with it an undercurrent of solidarity. In that moment, I understood the unspoken balance of our makeshift family: each of us playing our part, supporting one another through actions both big and small. As I stepped out of the tent, the fabric flap closing behind me, I felt the weight of the afternoon air. It was a reminder of the world outside, of the tasks awaiting us, and of the resilience required to face them. Setting up the other tent wasn't just about providing shelter; it was about creating a semblance of structure. And so, with a deep breath, I moved forward, determined to add my contribution to our collective survival.

As the dwindling sun's rays stretched across the sky, casting long shadows and painting the horizon in hues of orange and pink, Glenda and I found ourselves in the quiet companionship that comes with shared tasks and mutual understanding. We had finished erecting the tent together, our movements synchronised in a dance of necessity rather than conversation. Silence had been our soundtrack, punctuated only by the rustling of fabric and the occasional clink of metal tent pegs. Afterward, I had busied myself with getting the campfire going, a task that offered both warmth and usefulness, while Glenda had taken on the responsibility of organising our food and medical supplies in the newly pitched shelter.

The campfire crackled and popped, a comforting sound in the growing evening chill. Wiping the last of the sauce from my paper plate with my finger, I tossed the plate into the flames, watching as it curled and blackened, consumed by the fire's insatiable appetite. Moments later, Glenda, who had been rhythmically tapping her empty plate against her knee, mirrored my action. The repetitive tapping, a seemingly absent-minded action, had caught my attention, and I found myself watching her more closely.

The moment her plate left her hand, I noticed her fingers immediately took its place, dancing nervously on her thigh. It was a small gesture, but in the quiet of the evening, it spoke volumes. "Everything okay?" I ventured, breaking the silence that had settled between us.

"Ahh, yeah," she replied, her voice carrying a hint of hesitation as she rubbed the hand that had been tapping along her thigh. The quick, almost reflexive movement did little to mask the underlying tension I sensed in her.

I wasn't convinced. The unease that seemed to radiate from her was palpable, and concern tightened its grip around my heart. "You sure?" I pressed gently, hoping to offer an opening should she need it. "I'm here if you need to talk."

Her response was almost immediate, a swift "I need to check on Jamie," as she got to her feet with a speed that suggested a desire to escape rather than address whatever was weighing on her mind.

As she walked away, the flickering light of the campfire casting her shadow long and wavering against the ground, I couldn't shake the feeling that there was indeed more on Glenda's mind than she was willing to share. Her quick departure, the nervous tapping, the brief and unconvincing reassurances—it all painted a picture of someone grappling with concerns they felt unable to voice.

Sitting there, watching the flames dance and consume everything thrown into them, I felt a sense of isolation creep in. It wasn't just the physical distance Glenda had put between us by walking away; it was the emotional distance, the barriers we all sometimes erect when we're struggling to cope. In that moment, I realised that despite our proximity, despite the shared experiences and the camaraderie that had momentarily begun to blossom among us, there were still chasms that remained unbridged, secrets and fears that lay hidden in the shadows, just beyond the reach of the campfire's light.

The return of Glenda from attending to Jamie marked a subtle shift in the atmosphere beside the campfire. Her presence seemed to carry a heavier weight this time. As she settled herself back into the dust beside me, the fine particles billowing softly around her, I couldn't help but notice the weariness etched into her features, a silent testament to the burdens she bore.

"How is he?" The question slipped from my lips, filled with genuine concern, not just for Jamie's well-being but for Glenda's too.

"Still in a lot of pain," she admitted, her voice tinged with a hint of frustration and helplessness that anyone in her position would feel. "I've changed the dressing on his wound and given him some more painkillers and a few sedatives. He should be out for the rest of the night." Her words were clinical, yet beneath them lay a layer of deep care and concern for Jamie's suffering.

"Thank you, Glenda," I found myself saying, the gratitude in my voice deep and profound. "I'm not sure we would have survived here long without you." It was the truth, unvarnished and simple. Glenda had become our beacon of hope in a situation that often seemed bleak and unforgiving.

At my words, Glenda shifted awkwardly in the dust, the movement betraying a discomfort with the praise or perhaps with the weight of responsibility that had been thrust upon her. "Is this all of you?" she asked, a question that seemed to come from a place of deep contemplation.

"Yes," I replied, puzzled by the direction of her inquiry.

"There's been nobody else?"

"No," I answered, my curiosity piqued. "Were you expecting more?" I couldn't help but probe further, sensing an undercurrent of something unspoken, a hidden layer of concern or doubt within her.

"Oh... um... no," Glenda stammered, her response coming out more as a hurried evasion than a clarification. The moment stretched between us, filled with a palpable awkwardness that neither of us seemed able to dispel.

We continued to sit in that awkward silence, the minutes stretching into what felt like an eternity. All the while, I listened to the fire crackle, its sounds a soothing yet sombre background to my racing thoughts. The flames, with their relentless consumption of the wood, seemed almost like a metaphor for our situation—constantly burning through resources, through hope, leaving behind nothing but ashes and the lingering warmth of our shared humanity.

"You know you can't go back," I found myself saying to Glenda, the statement carrying more weight than a question ever could. It was an acknowledgment of our situation, a mutual understanding of the point of no return that we had crossed.

"I know," she replied, her voice steady yet laden with an unspoken mix of acceptance and resignation. Her simple acknowledgment sent us spiralling back into a silence that was both reflective and charged with the weight of our reality.

The silence stretched on, a tangible entity that seemed to envelop us, until Glenda broke it with a question that had been lingering in the air, unasked yet palpable. "So, what did actually happen last night?" Her inquiry, gentle yet probing, sought to pierce the veil of uncertainty that had shrouded the events of the previous night.

I weighed my response carefully, aware that the full truth might be more than either of us was prepared to handle in this moment. I recounted the tale of the dust storm and the overwhelming darkness that had enveloped us, a narrative that, while true, omitted the chilling encounter with the night terror. It was a deliberate choice, a bid to spare her from the added burden of knowing every harrowing detail. I've given her enough to think about already, I rationalised, hoping the partial truth would suffice for now.

Glenda's gaze drifted upwards, seeking out the sky that had turned the same eerie black as the night before. "It's very dark. There is no moon, or stars here?" she pondered aloud, her question voicing a sense of disorientation and loss—a yearning for the familiar comfort of celestial bodies that seemed absent in this place.

"I don't think so," I replied, my own voice tinged with a hint of regret. "At least we didn't see anything last night."

“Oh, I see,” Glenda murmured, her attention returning to the fire. The light from the flames reflected in her eyes, casting a warm glow on her face, yet unable to dispel the growing shadows of concern.

As I observed her, lines of worry etched themselves deeper into her expression, a map of the stress and challenges she had faced. She must be nearing her early forties, I mused, noting the graceful way she carried the weight of her experiences. Despite the hardships, Glenda seemed to be ageing with a resilience and strength that was as admirable as it was enviable.

In that moment, seated by the fire under a starless sky, the contrast between the darkness above and the flickering light before us served as a metaphor for our current existence—caught between the unknown and the faint hope that sustained us. Glenda's concerns, mirrored in her furrowed brow, were a reminder of the complexities and uncertainties we faced, not just in our surroundings, but within ourselves.

"Glenda," I whispered, breaking the silence that had once again settled around us like a thick blanket.

"Yes, Paul," she responded, her voice carrying a note of readiness, as if braced for whatever concern or confession I was about to voice.

"The dark can be a scary place here," I admitted, the words feeling both vulnerable and true. "I'm going to keep the fire going all night tonight." It was a declaration as much as it was a reassurance to myself—a way to ward off the shadows that seemed to press in closer with each passing hour.

"Do you feel safe here?" Glenda's question cut to the heart of our situation, simple yet profound in its implication.

I paused, considering the reality of our circumstances. "Nothing about this place seems particularly safe," I confessed. The admission felt heavy, laden with the weight of our collective unease. "But I think having the light is the best thing for us, if we are going to avoid a repeat of last night's fiasco." It was a tactical decision, born of necessity rather than comfort, a small beacon of hope in the form of a flickering flame.

Glenda shifted uncomfortably in the dust again, her movements reflecting the internal turmoil that seemed to grip her. “I think we should build some security for our settlement. And soon,” she urged, her voice laced with a sense of urgency that belied a deeper concern.

I eyed Glenda cautiously, her suggestion sparking a mix of curiosity and apprehension within me. What isn't she telling me? The question echoed in my mind, a silent alarm that hinted at unseen dangers lurking just beyond the firelight's reach. "I'll have a chat to Luke about it tomorrow," I told her, attempting to offer some measure of reassurance.

Although, to be honest, I wasn't sure what good that would do right now. In the brief time since our arrival, our accomplishments had been modest at best and disastrous at worst. In two days, all we had managed to do was put up two tents, botch a slab of concrete, and nearly kill Jamie. The idea of building any form of security felt daunting, almost laughable in the context of our current capabilities. It was a task that seemed leagues away from the immediate, tangible goals of simple survival—shelter, food, and safety from the elements. And yet, Glenda's insistence suggested it was not only necessary but urgent.

As I sat there, watching the flames dance with a hypnotic, mesmerising glow, I couldn't help but feel the weight of the challenge ahead. Building security, both physical and psychological, in this Clivilian environment was going to be a monumental task.

"You'll take the first watch then," Glenda's proposition, practical as it was, underscored the needs of our situation. Her rising from our shared spot by the fire, the simple act of brushing dust from her slacks, seemed to punctuate the end of our fleeting respite.

"First watch?" My question echoed faintly, a verbal grappling for understanding, even though I already knew the answer. It was an acknowledgment of our new reality—a night segmented into shifts of vigilance, a necessity born from the unknowns that might lurk in the darkness beyond our campfire's light.

"Well, you can't very well sit there awake all night," Glenda pointed out, her voice carrying a blend of logic and concern. "I'll switch with you when I check on Jamie during the night."

"Sure," I agreed, my assent automatic, yet imbued with a deep-seated appreciation for her thoughtfulness. As I turned back to the fire, its flames a mesmerising dance of light and shadow, I felt a solitary weight settle upon my shoulders. It was a responsibility not just to the flames before me, but to the safety and well-being of our makeshift family.

Glenda's departure was marked by a pause, a moment of hesitation that drew my attention away from the hypnotic flames. "Oh, Paul?" Her voice, calling out before she reached the sanctuary of the food and medical tent, held an unexpected note of curiosity.

"Yeah?" My response, slightly apprehensive, sought to bridge the distance between us.

"Does our little settlement have a name yet?" The question, seemingly innocuous, carried an undercurrent of significance. It was about more than just a name; it was about identity, about laying claim to a piece of this world as our own.

I smiled, despite the seriousness of our conversation and the weight of the night ahead. "Bixbus."

"Hmm, odd name," Glenda mused, her voice carrying a mix of amusement and contemplation. And without another word, she turned and disappeared into the tent, leaving me with the fire, the night, and my thoughts.

The passage of time felt interminable, each minute stretching into an eternity as I kept my solitary vigil by the fire. Eventually, the discomfort in my leg grew too insistent to ignore, compelling me to stand and stretch, dispelling the numbness that had crept into my muscles. The act of standing felt like a small rebellion against the lethargy that threatened to envelop me.

Compelled by a mixture of concern and a need for movement, I made my way over to Jamie’s tent. The action was almost stealthy, a quiet intrusion into the sanctuary we had created for him. As I pulled back the flap, the ambient light from the fire cast flickering shadows across the interior, painting a scene of fragile tranquility. Jamie was lost in sleep, his light snores a comforting sign of life in the silence that filled the space.

Duke lifted his head to acknowledge my presence, his eyes meeting mine in a silent exchange of understanding before he settled back down. Henri, unfazed by my intrusion, gave a tired snort and rolled over, his soft snores a constant, somewhat reassuring background noise. I was impressed with their unwavering presence by Jamie's side since Glenda's treatment.

Returning to the fire, I tried to find solace in its warmth and light. The dust, omnipresent and seemingly invasive, offered a soft cushion against the hard ground, yet comfort remained elusive. I shifted positions frequently, a restless attempt to find even a modicum of ease in the discomfort.

The restlessness within me grew, an unquiet spirit that refused to be stilled. In response, I fed the fire, throwing several large chunks of wood onto the flames. It was a determined effort to keep the darkness at bay, to ensure that our beacon of light and warmth did not falter. The fire responded, crackling and brightening, a defiant blaze against the encroaching night.

Eventually, I lay down on my back, my gaze drawn upward to the dark, lifeless sky. It was an expanse that offered no comfort, no familiar points of light to anchor to. Blinking rapidly, I fought against the weight of exhaustion that pressed down on my eyelids, the heaviness a tangible force in the battle to remain vigilant.

I have to stay awake, I chided myself, the mantra an attempt at a lifeline in the struggle against sleep. I… must… stay..