Watching Dr. Glenda De Bruyn as she navigated her way through the scattered chairs to the front of the Hobart Family Doctor's Practice, I felt a familiar twinge of anxiety knotting in my stomach. The room was filled with the faint hum of whispered conversations and the occasional cough or sneeze, a symphony of human frailty. The walls, painted a sterile shade of cream, seemed to close in on me as I waited, enveloped in the scent of antiseptic mingled with the faint trace of worn-out upholstery.

The clock was merciless in its steady march, signalling the passage of time with a relentless rhythm that echoed the beating of my own heart. At 4:30 pm, with the daylight waning and casting long shadows through the window blinds, Dr. De Bruyn's appearance should have been a relief. Yet, her lateness only served to amplify the tension coiling within me.

"Clyde Thompson," Dr. De Bruyn's voice cut through the murmur of the room, her tone professional yet unmistakably weary.

I slumped further into my chair, the fabric groaning under the shift of my weight. "Shit," I muttered to myself, the word barely a whisper but loud in my own ears. It wasn't just the delay that irked me; it was the uncertainty, the not knowing, that gnawed at my patience.

With a resigned sigh, I reached for the discarded magazine on the adjacent seat. Its glossy pages were dog-eared and wrinkled, telling tales of countless others who had sat here, waiting, just like me. I flipped through it without interest, images of celebrities and sensational headlines blurring into a meaningless collage. The magazine was a poor distraction, its shallow content starkly contrasting with the depth of my haphazard thoughts.

As minutes trickled by, each felt longer than the last. My gaze flickered to the clock again, its hands inching towards 4:35 pm. The ticking seemed louder now, a relentless reminder of the time slipping away.

"Shit," I whispered once more, a mantra of frustration. My foot tapped an uneven rhythm on the linoleum floor, a physical manifestation of the nervous anticipation bubbling inside me. The room, with its beige walls and the soft buzz of fluorescent lights, felt like a cage. I was trapped in a limbo of waiting, every minute stretching out before me, filled with the weight of my own unease and the shared tension of those around me.

Another twelve minutes dragged by, each second a heavy tick that reverberated through the sterile air of the waiting room. I found myself again watching Dr. De Bruyn, her movements methodical and precise as she approached the front reception desk. The receptionist handed her a new medical file, and a flicker of hope ignited within me. I straightened in my seat, my muscles tensing with anticipation, silently willing my name to be the next on her lips.

Dr. De Bruyn turned, her presence commanding the room's attention as she walked to the forefront. "Luke Smith," she announced, her voice clear yet carrying an undercurrent of fatigue.

Our eyes met as I stood, a subtle acknowledgment passing between us. My steps were quick, propelled by a mix of eagerness and anxiety, as I navigated through the maze of chairs and fellow patients. Each step felt laden with the gravity of the situation, my heart pounding in sync with my hastened pace.

"This way, please," Dr. De Bruyn's voice was a blend of professionalism and weariness as I reached her. She gestured towards the small medical room, her movements precise yet betraying a hint of exhaustion.

As she ushered me inside and closed the door behind us, the room felt like a sanctuary and a cell all at once. The directive to take a seat in the visitor's chair felt like a command and a reprieve. As I sat down, the proximity allowed me a clearer view of her face. The raw, red rims of her eyes spoke volumes, hinting at a burden of care that went beyond the physical ailments she treated.

A part of me, perhaps the part that still clung to human connection despite my pressing concerns, yearned to inquire about her well-being. Yet, the urgency of Jamie's situation clamped down on that impulse. Today, my focus was singular, directed towards securing the assistance Jamie needed. Dr. De Bruyn's troubles, though they tugged at my empathy, would have to remain unaddressed. In that moment, my world narrowed to the mission at hand, relegating all else to the periphery of my concern.

"What can I do for you this time, Mr. Smith?" Glenda's voice was polite, her professional demeanour intact despite the evident strain in her eyes.

My response stalled in my throat, my mind a tumultuous sea of rehearsed words and urgent concerns. The image of Jamie's bleeding chest was seared into my memory. I had mentally rehearsed this conversation countless times, strategising the best approach to convince Dr. De Bruyn to take the steps necessary to enter Clivilius. Yet, seated before her, the weight of the moment pressed down on me, a tangible force that threatened to silence my carefully prepared plea. Time was a luxury I no longer possessed.

The new virus ravaging the local Tasmanian communities wasn't just a headline to me; it was a palpable threat that loomed ever closer. While the public remained largely in the dark, my involvement with an NGO health organisation had afforded me a glimpse behind the curtain of official narratives. Hushed conversations and clandestine exchanges had hinted at a reality far more alarming than the one portrayed in the media. The suggestion that something more sinister was at play wasn't just speculation—it was a theory supported by whispers among those in the know, whispers that I had inadvertently become a part of. Whispers that had suggested of Glenda’s covert involvement.

"Mr. Smith?" Glenda's voice, tinged with a hint of concern, cut through my distracted thoughts, anchoring me back to the moment.

My heart pounding against my ribcage, I leaned in closer, invading the usual professional space that separated doctor and patient. My movement was deliberate, a physical manifestation of the urgency and gravity of what I was about to broach. "Tell me, Glenda," I whispered, my voice a mixture of determination and vulnerability, "What do you know about The Testing?"

Her reaction was instantaneous and telling. Glenda's eyes widened, a flash of fear—or was it recognition?—passing through them before her hands flew up, pressing against our mouths in a hasty gesture of silence. "Shh," she urged, her voice a mere breath, "How do you know about... that?"

The intensity of her reaction sent a chill down my spine. Glenda's face, usually so composed, now mirrored truth to the rumours, her features etched with the seriousness of our clandestine conversation. The fear that my plan might unravel right there, under the weight of her newfound wariness, was palpable. Her knowledge, her reaction, all pointed to a truth that was as dangerous as it was vital.

In the years I had known Glenda, her integrity and commitment to truth had always stood out to me. She was more than a physician; she was a beacon for those in search of support, a defender of the underrepresented. That she might be connected to The Testing in some way didn't surprise me as much as it confirmed my suspicions that there was more to her than met the eye.

But the path was set now. The question hung in the air between us, a precarious bridge over a chasm of unknowns. There was no turning back. I had to press forward, to navigate this delicate dance of revelation and discretion. In the silence that followed, filled with the weight of unspoken secrets and shared understanding, I realised that our conversation had crossed a threshold. We were no longer just doctor and patient; in this mission, we were allies in a quest for truth, however perilous that path might be.

I leaned in even closer to her ear, the urgency of my message necessitating the intimacy. "I can get you to a safe place," I whispered, my voice a soft yet firm promise in the quiet of the room.

Glenda's reaction was immediate, her eyes widening as she leaned back slightly to meet my gaze. "Really?" she whispered back, a mix of skepticism and hope in her voice. "Is there such a place?"

In response, I slowly uncurled my fingers, revealing the small, unassuming object nestled in my palm. The Portal Key, its surface smooth and inscrutable, seemed almost mundane in the clinical setting of the doctor's office. "Yes," I whispered back.

"What is that?" Glenda's curiosity was piqued as she leaned in to get a closer look at the Portal Key, her professional demeanour giving way to genuine intrigue. Her eyes, so adept at diagnosing illnesses, now tried to decipher the purpose of the object before her.

"I'll show you," I said, a decisive edge to my whisper as I rose to my feet, the chair scraping softly against the floor. "Are you sure we are alone?"

Glenda's reply was hesitant, her gaze flickering to the door before returning to mine. "I can't be certain."

Her uncertainty was a splash of cold water, a chilling reminder of the risk I was taking. With a deep, steadying breath, I pushed aside the lingering doubts, propelled by the necessity of Jamie’s situation. My hands moved with practiced ease, rearranging the sparse furniture with a quiet urgency, creating the space I needed.

Then, with a motion that felt both familiar and otherworldly, I activated the Portal Key. The back wall of the room, once solid and unremarkable, became the canvas for a breathtaking display. Bright, electrifying colours burst forth, swirling and coalescing into a vibrant gateway. The Portal expanded rapidly, its hues dancing wildly, until it covered the entire surface, a radiant beacon of escape and possibility.

With the Portal pulsating before us, the urgency of the moment eclipsed all else. "Shall we?" I asked, my voice steady despite the turmoil within. I extended my hand toward Glenda, an invitation and a lifeline all at once.

Rising from her chair, Glenda's expression was a tapestry of wonder and resolve. The clinical ambiance of the office faded into the background as she approached the vibrant gateway. Her steps were measured, almost reverent, as she reached out, her fingers hovering inches from the Portal's shimmering surface. "I have heard my father speak of it before, but never seen it with my own eyes. It is more beautiful than I had ever imagined," she murmured, her voice tinged with a mix of awe and nostalgia.

Her words struck a chord within me, igniting a cascade of realisations and questions. "It is," I agreed, my gaze momentarily drifting from the Portal to her face, searching for clues to the depth of her knowledge. The revelation about her father added layers of complexity to our situation. Glenda's father knows about Clivilius? The thought echoed in my head, a tumultuous storm of implications. Was he like Cody and I... a Guardian? The possibility sent a shiver down my spine, the implications vast and unpredictable.

Holy fuck! The expletive rang silently in my mind, a succinct summary of the shock and awe that battled for dominance within me. Here, in the shadow of the Portal's luminescence, our connection deepened, bound by secrets and revelations that transcended the ordinary fabric of our lives. As we stood on the precipice of this new reality, the weight of our shared destiny pressed upon us, a tangible force that intertwined our paths with threads of past, present, and future.

Glenda hovered at the threshold of the Portal, her silhouette framed against the kaleidoscope of colours that beckoned from beyond. The hesitation in her stance was palpable, a physical manifestation of the turmoil that I sensed churning within her.

"What's wrong?" I prodded, my voice laced with a rising tide of anxiety. The urgency of my mission pressed heavily upon me, each second stretched taut with significance.

"Pierre. What will happen to Pierre?" Her question broke through the tension, her voice imbued with a desperate hope for reassurance. Pierre's fate was clearly a tether holding her back, anchoring her to the life she was poised to leave behind.

"I'll bring Pierre for you," I pledged, the words firm with resolve. "And your parents." It was a promise laden with complexity, yet essential to secure her trust and cooperation.

Glenda's expression shifted, the mention of her father ushering in a wave of sorrow. "I lost my father many years ago," she confessed, her voice a soft echo of grief. The revelation added a new layer of depth to her hesitation, a poignant reminder of the ties that bind us to our past.

"I'm sorry for your loss," I responded, the words carrying the weight of my genuine empathy.

Glenda's gaze returned to the Portal, the vibrant gateway that promised escape yet demanded a leap of faith. "When?" Her single word question was laden with the weight of uncertainty and hope.

"As soon as I can. I can't promise I'll be quick," I admitted.

"Thank you," she murmured, her eyes still locked on the mesmerising display before us.

I watched as she took another step forward, drawn by the allure of the Portal's swirling colours. Her movement was a dance with destiny, a step toward Clivilius that I was about to help her embrace.

"I'll be right behind you, Glenda," I assured her, a promise that extended beyond the physical journey through the Portal. It was a vow of solidarity, of shared purpose and mutual support.

The sudden vibration of the phone on the desk sliced through the tense atmosphere, diverting Glenda's attention from the mesmerising display of the Portal. My heart sank. Shit, the internal expletive echoed in my head as I watched her stride towards the desk. Time was slipping through my fingers, and every second felt like a precious commodity I couldn't afford to lose. Come on, Glenda, my thoughts urged silently, frustration mounting. We don't have time for this. Move the fuck along.

Her reaction to the phone's message was immediate and alarming. The hand that flew to her mouth, the sharp intake of breath—it all spelled trouble. "What is it?" I asked, my voice tight with concern and impatience mingling in a turbulent commotion.

With a solemn stride, Glenda approached, extending the device towards me. "Luke, you must destroy this phone for me, please," she implored, her eyes conveying the desperation of her request. The urgency in her voice, the fear in her gaze—it all underscored the seriousness of whatever message she had received.

"I will. You have my word," I assured her, the promise firm and unyielding. The phone, now an object of peril, felt heavy with significance as I took it from her.

But then, as Glenda turned back towards the Portal, her steps faltered once again, and she stopped. My frustration boiled over. Oh, for fuck's sake! The silent scream ricocheted within the confines of my mind. What is it now?

"Oh, Luke. I nearly forgot," Glenda's voice cut through the tense air, halting the frantic pace of my thoughts.

"What is it?" My question came out sharper than intended, a reflection of the frayed nerves and pressing urgency I felt. Glenda, thankfully, seemed too absorbed in her own train of thought to notice the edge in my voice.

"In my top drawer, you'll find my hospital ID and keys," she revealed, her tone suggesting the significance of what she was entrusting to me. "I have a high enough security level that will get you into almost any part of the Royal. You may find them very useful later."

Her words took me aback, a mixture of gratitude and surprise washing over me. "Indeed, I am sure I will," I responded, acknowledging the weight of her contribution.

With a renewed sense of purpose, I gestured towards the Portal, urging her forward. "Let's go," I said, a gentle coaxing in my voice, trying to shepherd her towards her destiny.

Finally, with a deep breath that seemed to gather all her resolve, Glenda stepped forward. The Portal's colours enveloped her, a whirlwind of hues that seemed to dance and twist around her figure. Her form blurred, then sharpened, as she moved through the vibrant gateway, her silhouette a beacon leading the way.

I followed closely, stepping into the cascade of colours that swirled around me. The sensation was disorienting yet exhilarating, a symphony of light and motion that seemed to pull at the very essence of my being. As I moved through the Portal, the world behind me faded, and the reality ahead beckoned.

As soon as we emerged on the other side of the Portal, the immediate urgency to secure our surroundings kicked in. With practiced speed, I closed the Portal, sealing off the path we had just traversed.

Turning my attention to Glenda, I noticed her standing a few feet away, her posture betraying a mix of awe and disorientation. The new environment seemed to envelop her, a stark contrast to the clinical familiarity of her previous world. I stepped towards her, my movements quick yet calculated, reaching out to steady her with a firm, reassuring grip on her shoulders.

Just then, Paul emerged from the surroundings, his approach swift and purposeful. I steered Glenda gently towards him, an introduction imminent. "This is Glenda," I announced. The pride in my voice was palpable, not just for having succeeded in my immediate mission, but for the potential Glenda represented to our future settlement. "Glenda is a doctor in Hobart," I added, emphasising her credentials and the hope that accompanied her arrival.

Glenda, regaining her composure, extended a hand in greeting, the universal gesture bridging the gap between her past life and this new, uncertain future. "It's a pleasure to meet you..." she began, her voice trailing off, inviting a name to complete the introduction.

"Paul," my brother filled in, his handshake firm, a solid anchor in the fluidity of our circumstances. "I'm Luke's brother."

The moment of recognition flickered across Glenda's face, her accent thickening the air with a touch of her heritage. "Of course," she responded, a smile tugging at the edges of her lips. "I see the resemblance now."

The casual exchange quickly shifted to a more pressing concern, pulling my focus sharply back to the task at hand. "Paul burnt his foot last night," I disclosed to Glenda, the urgency of the situation lacing my words. "He seems to be doing okay with it now, but I reckon a bit of medical attention wouldn't hurt."

"Sure," Glenda responded with a no-nonsense tone, her readiness to step into her professional role evident. "Show me your foot," she instructed Paul, her voice carrying the weight of her expertise and authority.

Paul's hesitation was palpable, a brief interlude of vulnerability before he complied, slowly raising his leg toward her. An internal chuckle escaped me as I anticipated Paul's reaction to Glenda's straightforward manner, a slight adjustment to the more informal care we had been accustomed to.

As Glenda squatted to examine Paul's injury, her movements were precise, the embodiment of clinical efficiency. But before she could delve deeper into her assessment, a surge of responsibility washed over me. "Oh, no, no. Not yet," I interjected, the image of Jamie's worsening condition flashing before my eyes. "There is another man in far more need than Paul," I stated, my voice tinged with growing anxiety.

"Take me to him and I shall take a look," Glenda offered without hesitation, her commitment to her duty clear.

Turning to Paul, I sought confirmation of Jamie's whereabouts. "Where's Jamie?"

Paul gulped heavily. "He's resting in the tent. I think he has a fever." His words sent a ripple of concern through me, escalating the urgency.

"Shit! What happened? I thought he was feeling better?" My question emerged more as a demand, the tension knotting my stomach as the reality of Jamie's precarious health loomed large.

"He seemed much better when we ate, but soon after... He looks pretty bad," Paul's voice was laced with worry, mirroring my own escalating fear.

Without a moment's delay, Glenda's clinical decisiveness cut through the mounting anxiety. "Take me to him. Now," she commanded, her focus razor-sharp.

The exchange marked a shift from mere introductions to immediate action, a reminder of the fragility of our situation and the critical role Glenda's skills would play in our survival.

With a quick gesture, I signalled for Paul to lead the way. We navigated through the undulating hills, the ground beneath our feet a tapestry of dust, disturbed only by the frequent comings and goings of our group and the gentle breeze. My pulse quickened with each step toward the camp, a maelstrom of emotions churning within me. Despite the anger toward Jamie that still simmered just below the surface, my concern for him remained undiminished—a testament to the complex tapestry of human relationships.

Glenda's exclamation, sharp and laced with urgency, pierced the heavy air as we arrived at the site. "Oh my God!" she cried out, her voice a blend of shock and concern. "He's not trapped under there, is he!?" Her eyes were fixed on the half-collapsed structure.

I shot Paul a withering look as his laughter broke through the tension, his amusement at the situation incongruent with the seriousness of Jamie’s condition. "Oh, no. He's in the fully built tent," Paul clarified, a smile still playing on his lips as he gestured toward the intact shelter where Jamie lay.

"Thank God," Glenda murmured, her relief palpable as she redirected her focus to the correct tent.

"That one is just my attempt to put a tent up by myself," Paul added, a hint of self-deprecation in his voice as he acknowledged his handiwork.

"Oh, I see," Glenda responded, her attention now fully on the task at hand as she prepared to assess Jamie's condition.

With a sense of urgency propelling me forward, I took the initiative to hold back the tent's front flap, creating a passageway for Glenda and Paul to follow me inside. The interior of the tent was dimly lit, the atmosphere heavy with the palpable weight of anxiety and concern.

"Jamie?" My voice was gentle, a soft intrusion into the quiet stillness that enveloped the space. There was no reply, just the sound of our own breaths, heavy with anticipation and dread.

My eyes immediately found Jamie, lying vulnerably on the mattress. The blanket, carefully draped around his waist, revealed his torso and the disturbing sight of the infected welt that marred his skin—a vivid testament to the severity of his condition. The sight of him, so weak and afflicted, sent a sharp pang through my heart.

Glenda wasted no time, her professional instincts kicking in as she knelt beside Jamie, her focus narrowing. Her quick assessment was grim. "He's not good. Not good at all," she declared, her tone laden with a mix of professional concern and personal alarm. Her eyes, seasoned by experience, quickly gauged Jamie's condition.

 Her question, "What happened here?" was directed at me, but I found myself momentarily paralysed by a surge of emotions, the words caught in a chokehold of fear and worry.

Paul stepped in to explain, his voice steady, providing the details I couldn't muster. "A hot coal struck him in the middle of the night," he disclosed, his brevity masking the complexity of the incident.

I offered Paul a silent nod of thanks, my gratitude for his timely intervention mingling with a host of other emotions.

Glenda's reaction to Paul's explanation was a mixture of surprise and concern, her gaze flickering between Paul and Jamie, trying to piece together the bizarre circumstances that had led to such a dire situation.

"It's a long story," Paul added, an acknowledgment of the many layers and nuances that underpinned the events leading to this moment.

"Later, then," Glenda responded, her attention resolutely returning to Jamie. Her voice carried a hint of steel, a determination to prioritise her patient's immediate needs over satisfying curiosity about the past.

The turmoil within me was a fierce storm, emotions clashing like thunderous waves against a rocky shore. As I turned my gaze away from Jamie's weakened form, a tear betrayed my inner turmoil, sliding down my cheek—a silent testament to the battle raging within. Despite the fractures in our trust, the thought of losing Jamie was unbearable, a startling reminder of the depth of my feelings for him. Regret gnawed at me, echoing the harshness of my earlier thoughts. I wish I could take back my earlier thoughts of letting him die. That's not who I am, I chastised myself silently, reaffirming my core values.

"I need a cloth," Glenda's request snapped me back to the present, her voice cutting through the haze of my thoughts.

My eyes darted to Paul, wide with a silent scream of panic. Our supplies were meagre, our preparation lacking. We don't have any cloths. In fact, we don't have any medical supplies at all yet, the thought hammered in my mind, a cruel reminder of our dire situation.

Yet, in that moment of desperation, Paul stepped up, his hand on my shoulder a brief but potent reassurance. "I got this," he murmured, his voice a low blend of resolve and calm.

His solution, pulling a fresh t-shirt from his bag, was improvised yet sincere. "It's clean. It's all we have," he offered, presenting the garment to Glenda with a mix of apology and pragmatism.

Glenda's reaction, a mixture of surprise and skepticism, was directed at me. "Seriously?" Her eyes, seeking confirmation, found mine.

I could only offer a helpless shrug, my heart heavy with the realisation of our limitations. "I'm sorry, Glenda," I whispered, my voice a soft echo of our collective frustration and resolve. In that dimly lit tent, surrounded by the palpable presence of fear and the looming shadow of mortality, we were doing the best we could with what little we had. And in that moment, it had to be enough.

In the thick, stagnant air of the tent, tension clung to every surface like a tangible film, seeping into my pores and weighing down my limbs. Glenda, with her hands poised with a clinical detachment over Jamie's swollen torso, turned to confer with Paul, her voice a calm, steady beacon in my distress.

"He has severe swelling in the upper left of the small gap between his pectoral muscles," she announced, her fingers tracing the contours of Jamie's injury with a featherlight touch, her brow furrowed in concentration. "I need to relieve some of the pressure."

The words hung heavy in the air, laden with an unspoken gravity that set my heart to pounding in my chest. Paul and I responded in a chorus, our voices melding into a single note of readiness, "Okay."

The next instruction came swiftly, Glenda's eyes darting between the two of us. "Someone will need to hold him," she said, the undercurrent of urgency in her tone unmistakable. "And take those dogs outside."

It was the moment of decision, the split second where roles were assigned, and I felt the stirrings of an instinctual pull toward Jamie, a need to be the one to offer solace, to anchor him through the pain. But Paul was quicker, stepping between me and my intent, his presence an immovable barrier.

"I think you better take the dogs," he stated, a finality in his voice that brooked no argument, his hand firm against my chest, steering me away from the mattress and toward a different duty.

I acquiesced, though each step felt like a betrayal, my gut churning with a cocktail of frustration and concern. With a heavy heart, I gathered the dogs, their bodies warm and alive against mine.

Outside, the world seemed oblivious to the drama unfolding within the tent's confines. I set the dogs down, their paws kicking up dust as they landed, and they looked up at me with eyes full of trust and confusion. I couldn't bear to meet their gaze, my attention drawn instead to the thin fabric barrier that separated me from my Jamie, my ears straining to catch snippets of sound from within.

Glenda's voice, firm and authoritative, filtered through the fabric. "Hold his shoulders down," she commanded, her tone brooding with the weight of the situation.

Below me, Duke's agitation mirrored my own, his movements erratic as he darted around my feet, while Henri, typically the quiet one, let out a rare yip, adding to the cacophony of distress. "Duke, sit!" I demanded, an edge of desperation in my voice, but he was a reflection of my own turmoil, unable to find peace.

Compelled by a mix of empathy and a need to exert some control, I knelt in the soft, forgiving dust. Reaching out, I enveloped Duke in a tight embrace, an attempt to offer him the solace I myself was desperately seeking. "Daddy will be okay," I murmured into his fur, a whisper more for my own reassurance than his.

Then, a scream shattered the fragile veneer of calm, a raw, visceral sound that bore the intensity of Jamie's pain. His voice, laced with agony, tore through the air, a harrowing reminder of the stakes inside that tent.

Duke, spurred by the distressing sound, wriggled free from my arms, his bark sharp and accusatory, as if he could fend off the pain that haunted Jamie. His reaction was a catalyst, igniting a flame of panic and urgency within me.

The scream, echoing in my ears, sent a visceral shiver down my spine, a cold wave of dread that no logic could dispel. "Jamie!" I cried out, my voice a blend of fear and determination, as I lunged toward the tent. My fingers, clumsy with anxiety, fumbled with the zipper, the metallic sound gratingly loud in the charged silence that followed Jamie's cry.

In a whirlwind of motion, I thrust myself inside the tent, propelled by a surge of adrenaline and a fierce need to be there for Jamie, to witness, to support, to not be a helpless bystander in his moment of vulnerability.

Glenda's voice, sharp and commanding, cut through the turmoil. "Stay out!" she yelled, her directive aimed squarely at me, but it was Duke's reaction that amplified the urgency of the moment.

Duke, with his instincts on high alert, growled menacingly, his body tensed and ready to spring into action, his loyalty driving him to defend, to protect. He charged behind the doctor, his protective instincts overriding his usual obedience.

"Get them the fuck out!" Glenda's voice escalated, her patience frayed by the critical nature of the situation. Her words, laced with an unmistakable sincerity, rooted me to the spot for a moment, a heavy realisation settling over me that this was no time for hesitation.

With a heavy heart, I reached for Duke, my hands firm around his body, pulling him back toward the tent's entrance. The fabric of the tent brushed against my skin, a harsh reminder of the barrier between Jamie's pain and my inability to alleviate it.

Jamie's scream, a sound of raw, unfiltered agony, pierced the air. "Duke!" I cried out, desperation tingeing my voice as the dog wriggled free in a frantic bid to return to the fray.

Adrenaline surged through my veins, lending me a burst of speed that allowed me to intercept Duke just as he aimed a nip at Glenda's shoes, his teeth grazing the material, a hair's breadth from chaos. With a swift motion, I secured him in my arms, preventing him from jumping onto the mattress and disrupting the delicate balance of the ongoing procedure.

The world outside the tent seemed inconsequential as I retreated, Duke in tow, the weight of the situation pressing down on me. My knees gave way, the ground coming up to meet me as I sank down, the dust a cold comfort against my skin.

Holding Duke close, I felt his heart pounding against my chest, his growls subsiding into a confused whine. "It's okay," I whispered, more to myself than to him, as the tears I'd been holding back began their silent descent. The salty tracks marked my cheeks, a testament to the helplessness and fear that gnawed at me, while Duke's warmth against my chest served as a small anchor in the tumultuous sea of emotions that threatened to engulf me.

The starkness of Jamie's pain resonated in the air, a shrill, piercing cry that seemed to vibrate through my very core. My body shook uncontrollably, a physical manifestation of the turmoil inside me. With Duke nestled against my chest, I found myself swaying gently, a subconscious effort to find some solace, some rhythm in the chaos. "Please be okay. Please be okay," I murmured repeatedly, a mantra of hope amidst the storm of fear and uncertainty.

The tent flap stirred, a subtle sound against the backdrop of heightened emotions, and my brother’s face materialised in the gap, his expression a mix of concern and reassurance. My eyes, swollen and red from tears, lifted to meet his, silently begging for a sliver of good news, for anything to cling to.

"I think he is alright," Paul uttered, his words slicing through the dense air of apprehension. The relief that should have washed over me was tempered by the severity of the situation, a hesitant nod the only response I could muster as I dabbed at my tear-streaked face, trying to compose myself, to stand firm in the face of adversity.

Suddenly, a harsh voice shattered the brief respite. "Who the fuck are you?" The words, tinged with hostility, emanated from inside the tent.

Paul's response was swift, practical yet infused with an underlying tension. "I need to get them some water," he declared, his hand finding my shoulder in a gesture of solidarity, a brief squeeze conveying a world of unspoken support and understanding.

Driven by a mix of concern and urgency, I navigated my way to the tent's entrance, the fabric flap now a barrier between me and the unfolding drama inside. My heart pounded against my ribcage, each beat a loud echo in my ears as I stepped into the tense atmosphere of the tent.

"I'm a doctor," Glenda's voice was firm, her statement clear and authoritative, cutting through the tension like a scalpel.

"And she just saved your life," I croaked, entering the tent. "You should be grateful."

"Grateful!" Jamie's retort was sharp, laced with disbelief and anger, his emotions raw and palpable. "You expect me to be fucking grateful?” His response stung, a harsh reminder of the pain and turmoil he was experiencing.

Duke, ever sensitive to the charged emotions around him, issued a low, menacing growl, his instincts to protect and defend kicking in despite the fragile peace I was desperately clinging to.

"Duke! Stop it!" I commanded, my voice a mix of sternness and concern, attempting to rein in his protective impulses.

Jamie's grimace of pain as he tried to adjust his position was a visual punch to the gut. Glenda's quick intervention, her hand gentle yet firm on his shoulder, was a testament to her professionalism and care, a grounding presence in the presence of pain.

Then, the situation escalated with Duke's bark and Glenda's swift, defensive reaction. The sight of her swatting Duke, her voice raised in a sharp command, jolted me into action. "Get off me!" she yelled, her words a clear signal of her limits being tested.

"Oh, Glenda," I stammered, my words trailing off as I rushed to intervene, my heart aching for both the doctor and my loyal companion. Scooping Duke into my arms, I felt a surge of protectiveness, a desperate need to mitigate the tension and prevent further alarm.

"Back away, Luke," Glenda's command was sharp, her glare piercing, leaving no room for argument. Her tone, a mix of authority and frustration, pushed me to comply without protest.

"I'll lock him out," I murmured, my voice soft, laced with regret and resignation. With heavy steps, I retreated back outside, the weight of Duke in my arms a physical manifestation of the turmoil I felt. Securing him with a canopy rope from the second, incomplete tent felt like tying a piece of my heart away, a necessary action that nonetheless deepened the ache inside me.

The atmosphere in the tent was charged with a mix of urgency and tension as I stepped back inside. Glenda's voice reached out to me, a beacon of calm in the storm. "Luke," she called, her tone serious yet composed, signalling the importance of her next words. "Listen carefully. I need you to return to the Doctor's Practice and get me a few supplies."

Her request anchored me, provided a focus amidst the conflicting emotions. "Sure. What do you need?" I responded, eager to be of use, to do something that could help mend the fraying edges of our situation.

I watched as Glenda, with a practiced motion, stretched a t-shirt, repurposing it with a medical necessity I hadn't known existed. She wrapped it tightly around the bite on her arm, a makeshift bandage born of necessity. Her actions, so deliberate and focused, belied the urgency of our predicament.

"I need..." she began, her voice trailing off as if the weight of the moment momentarily caught her. Then, with a shift of focus, she asked, "Do you have any paper and pen?"

"Actually, we do," I replied, a half-smile breaking through my concern. It felt like a small victory, being able to provide something so simple yet so essential at that moment. I moved to the far corner of the tent, my actions purposeful, sifting through our scattered belongings to retrieve the requested items.

"Here," I extended the paper and pen toward Glenda, offering them up like a lifeline, a connection to the next steps we needed to take.

Glenda's acceptance of the pen and paper was accompanied by a short smile. "Thanks," she said, her gratitude simple but sincere.

As I observed Glenda, her brow knitted in deep concentration, a sense of unease unfurled within me, magnified with each hurried stroke of her pen. The urgency of her movements, the intensity etched into her features—it all served to amplify the unease that gnawed at my gut.

"A lot of this you can actually find in my examination room," Glenda remarked, her voice steady, betraying none of the tension that her furrowed brow conveyed. She extended the list toward me, her hand steady despite the circumstances. As I squatted beside her, the reality of our situation sank in deeper with the physical weight of the paper in my hand.

Shit, the thought echoed through my mind as I scanned the extensive list, the words blurring slightly as my brain tried to process the magnitude of the task ahead. That's a very long list. Anxiety gnawed at the edges of my resolve, the daunting nature of the errand settling heavily on my shoulders.

"The rest," Glenda continued, her voice pulling me back from the precipice of my worries, "The ones with the asterisks, you'll have to take from the shared supply room." Her words struck me with a jolt of alarm. What the hell is Glenda thinking? The ethical boundaries of the mission blurred before my eyes—taking from her own room was one thing, but pilfering shared resources was another dilemma entirely.

"I'm sorry, Luke, but we are going to need it all," she stated, her voice imbued with a mix of apology and firm resolve. There was no room for debate, only the overwhelming sense of necessity.

I nodded, a gesture of reluctant agreement, the weight of our desperate circumstances pressing down on me. "I'll be quick. I promise." The words left my lips in a rush, a vow to navigate the looming challenge with as much speed and efficiency as I could muster.

"Luke," Glenda's voice halted me, her hand gripping my arm with an urgency that drew my gaze. The intensity in her eyes, the firm squeeze of her hand—it all conveyed a seriousness that resonated deep within me. "Be careful."

My expression fell, a reflection of the myriad emotions churning within me—fear, determination, responsibility. The lines on my face tightened, mirroring the tightening in my chest, as the full weight of Glenda's concern and the critical nature of my mission settled upon me. With a final nod, an unspoken promise to heed her warning, I turned and exited the tent, stepping into the uncertain embrace of the world outside, carrying with me the heavy burden of our collective hope.