"Put him on the mattress," I commanded, the urgency clear in my voice as the campfire came into view. The weight of Joel in our arms grew heavier with each step.

"I don't think that's a good idea. We only have one. He could be infected," Glenda countered, her voice laced with concern. Her objection, pragmatic as it was, struck a nerve.

I halted in my tracks, the frustration boiling over. "Bit late to say that now," I retorted sharply. "If Joel's infected then it’s likely we are too." The words hung between us, a grim acknowledgment of our shared vulnerability.

Glenda's expression tightened, the muscles in her face betraying the internal conflict she felt between her medical instincts and the reality of our predicament.

"Jamie's right," Luke chimed in, siding with the decision to proceed despite the risks. "We may as well."

With a tense nod, Glenda conceded, stepping forward to hold the tent flap open.

Inside the tent, Kain sprang into action, stripping the blankets from the mattress with a haste born of necessity. Together, Luke and I gently placed Joel down.

Luke stepped back, a silent observer to the unfolding scene. I, too, found myself moving aside, making space for Glenda to take over. She knelt beside the mattress, her posture one of focused attention as she leaned over Joel. I watched silently, as she examined him, her eyes and fingers moving with practiced care.

Her gaze lingered on Joel's eyes, those bright, blue orbs that seemed to defy the pallor of his skin, shining with a vitality that belied his condition. For a moment, time seemed to stand still, the connection between them a bridge of silent communication.

A sense of pride welled up within me, an emotion fierce and tender in its intensity. Joel definitely has my eyes. The realisation was a beacon of light in the darkness, a link between father and son that no circumstance could sever. A smile, weary yet genuine, found its way to my face, a silent tribute to the resilience and hope that Joel represented.

As Glenda inhaled deeply, her subsequent words seemed to hang in the air, heavy with implications that defied logic. "Both Carotid arteries seem to have healed, assuming they were ever severed." Her analysis was clinical, yet her voice carried an undercurrent of disbelief. "Aside from the obvious slice across his throat and what I'd assume are bumps and bruises from his time in the river, he doesn't appear to have any other major physical wounds." Her brows furrowed in concentration as she grappled with the incongruity of Joel's condition. "I'm not sure how he could have lost all this blood if not through major artery damage."

Luke's input only served to solidify the mystery, his confirmation blunt. "His throat was definitely slit. There was a lot of blood."

His words acted as a spark to the powder keg of emotions within me. My body tensed, a mixture of anger and disbelief coursing through me with the force of a tempest.

Glenda's response to Luke's assertion was a casual shrug, an outward sign of her internal struggle to make sense of the situation. "It's not making much sense," she admitted, her professional calm at odds with the confusion that clouded her features.

My patience shattered. "What do you mean you know his throat was slit?" The question burst from me, a demand for clarity in the swirling maelanage of half-truths and mysteries. "And how the fuck would you know how much blood there was?" The accusation flew from my lips, aimed squarely at Luke, a pointed challenge that left no room for ambiguity. My words were a manifestation of the turmoil within, a demand for answers that seemed as elusive as the shadows that danced across the tent’s canvas walls.

Luke's question, seemingly an attempt to navigate the tension, did little to quell the storm within me. His inquiry about defensive wounds felt like a diversion, a sidestep around the core of my anger. Glenda's confirmation, "No, none," only deepened the mystery. “Were you expecting any?” her subsequent question to Luke hinting at her own search for understanding.

Luke's response, that the lack of defensive wounds suggested a quick, surprising attack, did nothing to soothe my frayed nerves. My glare remained fixed, my hands involuntarily forming fists, the physical manifestation of my inner turmoil. "Well? You haven't answered my question," I demanded, my voice a tight coil of anger, seeking not just answers but accountability.

Luke took a deep breath. "Joel was the driver that delivered the tents back home. I was surprised to see him; I didn't recognise him at first. Not until I saw his name sewn into his shirt," he explained.

The collective gasp that rippled through the tent was a shared reaction to the revelation, a unison of shock and disbelief.

As Glenda carefully revealed the small rip in Joel's shirt, the evidence of his identity laid bare, the name "Joel" served as a stark reminder of the person at the heart of this enigma.

"Henri and Duke coming here was all an accident," Luke continued to defend himself. "Joel accidentally let Henri outside and he ran through the Portal when we tried to catch him. I forgot I was still carrying Duke when I followed after Henri." His words, a confession of sorts, painted a picture of unintended consequences, of actions and reactions spiralling beyond control.

"And Joel saw all of this?" Glenda's question, cautious yet probing, sought clarification, a need to understand the extent of Joel's involvement.

"Yes," Luke confirmed. "And when I returned, I found him lying in a pool of blood in the back of the truck."

Kain's soft exclamation, "Holy shit," mirrored the disbelief and shock that rippled through me, a sentiment that seemed to echo off the tent's fabric walls.

"But that was yesterday," I found myself saying, the timeline gnawing at me, a glaring gap in our shared understanding of events. "Why didn't you tell me?" The question, heavy with accusation and betrayal, hung between us, a chasm that seemed to widen with each passing second.

Luke's response, a dry gulp followed by the admission, "I thought you'd blame me for it," was like a spark to kindling. His words, meant to explain, only served to ignite the anger that had been smouldering within me. "I do fucking blame you for it!" The cry was torn from the depths of my being, a raw outburst of frustration and pain.

Glenda's attempt to intervene, her voice firm and authoritative, briefly cut through the tension. Yet, my accusations continued, a torrent of blame and incredulity directed at Luke. "And then you brought him here and dumped his body in the fucking river! That's some seriously fucked up shit!"

Luke's denial, a shout laden with desperation and horror, "It wasn't me! I would never do something so terrible!" was a plea for understanding, a defence against the unthinkable.

Glenda's second intervention, louder and more forceful, "Boys! Stop it!" demanded attention, her voice a command that brooked no dissent.

The tent, in the wake of her demand, succumbed to an eerie silence, a heavy quiet that seemed to press in from all sides. The weight of the revelations, the accusations, and the denials hung in the air, a palpable tension that no one dared to break. In that silence, the gravity of our situation settled over us, a sombre cloak that offered no warmth, only the cold realisation of the complexity and heartache that lay ahead.

Breaking the silence, I found my voice, albeit quieter, more controlled than before. "Well, what did you do with the body?" The question, while direct, was asked with a restraint born from a deep-seated need to understand, to piece together the fragmented reality we were now navigating.

"We buried him," Luke's admission was simple, yet it carried the weight of actions taken in desperation, decisions made in the shadow of unimaginable circumstances.

My skepticism must have been evident, but before I could articulate the flood of questions swirling in my mind, Glenda voiced the query that loomed the largest. "We?" Her single word, sharp and incisive, cut to the heart of the matter.

Luke's response, a hesitant admission, "Beatrix, Gladys and I," unveiled yet another layer to this complex tapestry of events.

"This is insane," Kain muttered, an echo of the confusion and incredulity that gripped us all.

Glenda's professional assessment brought us back to the immediate concern—Joel's inexplicable condition. "I really don't understand any of this at all," she said. "But I can do some basic surgery and stitch his throat back up. I can't guarantee anything. He might be breathing and have his eyes open, but that doesn't mean that he is actually alive. He hasn't spoken and isn't responding to any of my stimuli," she explained.

"So, what does that mean? What's happening to him?" My question, voiced amidst the tumult of my thoughts, sought clarity in the face of overwhelming ambiguity.

Glenda's admission of uncertainty, "I really don't know," was a testament to the complexity of Joel's condition, a puzzle that defied easy answers.

Luke's retreat marked a turning point in our conversation.

"Alright," I found myself saying, a resolve settling over me despite the uncertainty. "What do you need?" My offer of support to Glenda, a commitment to do whatever was necessary, was a small act of defiance against the distress that threatened to consume me.

Glenda's hesitant start, "Well... I need..." trailed off, a moment of vulnerability that laid bare the enormity of the task before us.

Crouching beside her, I placed my hand on her shoulder, an attempt to offer comfort, to bridge the gap between despair and determination.

Glenda looked over at me. "I'm going to do a horizontal mattress suture. I need a medium saline solution with... gloves... needle..." Her words melded into a blur of medical jargon that left me feeling utterly out of my depth. My gaze locked with hers, but my mind was adrift, grappling with the reality of the situation. What the hell did Glenda just say? The thought echoed in my head, a mix of confusion and concern. The term "basic surgery" seemed a gross understatement for what was about to happen.

"You stay here and watch him," Glenda told me, and giving me a firm pat on the shoulder, she got to her feet. "I won't be long," she said. "I'll just get what I need from the medical tent and be straight back," she promised.

"You stay here and watch him," Glenda instructed, her hand on my shoulder grounding me momentarily to the present. Her assurance that she would return promptly did little to ease the swirling thoughts. When did Luke and Kain leave? The realisation that I was now alone with Joel, save for his unconscious presence, dawned on me slowly. Luke's rapid departure, likely spurred by guilt and confusion, left me to face the unfolding drama with only my thoughts for company.

Turning back to Joel, the weight of recent discoveries pressed heavily on me. "I only found out you existed a few months ago," I found myself whispering, a confession to both Joel and myself. The absurdity of our situation, the mystery surrounding his condition, lay between us, unspoken yet palpable. I halted mid-sentence, the reality that Joel's condition defied logical explanation hanging heavily in the air.

Yet, as I gazed into his eyes—those wide, blue eyes that mirrored my own yet revealed nothing of his condition—I felt a resolve harden within me. Despite the bewildering circumstances, the lack of answers, and the myriad of questions that remained, hope stubbornly took root. Joel's life, however precarious it might seem, was not something I could easily resign to fate. The determination to cling to hope, to believe in the possibility of his survival, became a beacon in the storm, a steadfast resolve that no matter how bizarre or inexplicable the situation, I would not give up on my son.

Within two minutes, which felt more like an eternity in the thick tension of the tent, Glenda returned to our makeshift operation scene. She moved with a purpose, her steps quick and determined as she knelt beside Joel's prone form. With a brisk motion, she donned a pair of blue medical gloves, the material snapping against her wrists. She then handed another pair to me, her eyes meeting mine with a seriousness that cemented the gravity of the situation. "You'd better wear these," she directed, her voice carrying the weight of her medical authority.

I donned the gloves quickly, the blue fabric stretching over my large hands, which felt clumsy and oversized in the moment. The latex hugged my skin tightly, a tangible reminder of the severity of the situation we found ourselves in.

“Now, hold this tray for me,” she instructed, handing over a sterile metal tray filled with medical instruments. Nodding quickly, I took the tray from Glenda, my hands shaking as if they were betraying my attempt to appear composed.

"And try not to tremble too much," said Glenda, her voice sharp but not unkind. "I don't need any other distractions." I nodded again, more quickly this time, feeling the weight of her expectation and the responsibility on my shoulders. My hands steadied slightly, motivated by the need to be useful, to not let Joel—or Glenda—down in this critical moment.

Glenda began to prepare Joel's neck wound for suturing with a focus that was both impressive and intimidating. The room felt charged with a silent urgency, every move she made was precise and calculated. The air felt heavier, charged with the palpable tension of life hanging in the balance.

"Why a mattress suture?" I found myself asking, my curiosity getting the better of me despite the situation. I was trying hard to show Glenda that I could keep a level head, that I was more than just a pair of trembling hands holding a tray.

"No unnecessary talking during surgery," she said flatly, her focus unwavering from the task at hand. Her reprimand was a clear reminder of the seriousness of our makeshift operation, a slap back to reality that this was no time for a medical inquisition.

I gulped dryly, the lump in my throat growing. Despite her strong exterior, I could sense a flicker of uncertainty in Glenda's eyes, a shared human moment that revealed she might be almost as scared as I was. Yet, her hands were steady, her movements sure. I really hoped she knew what she was doing. In the silence that followed, filled only with the sound of our breathing I found a moment of internal solace. She's a doctor, I told myself silently, clinging to this fact like a lifeline. Of course she knows what she's doing.

As Glenda finally began the surgery, the cold light of the tent seemed to sharpen, focusing intently on the small, critical space of Joel's neck wound. She grasped the edge with forceps, and I couldn't help but flinch as she drove the needle through his skin with a precision that belied the gruesomeness of the act. The medical instruments rattled ominously on the tray, a jarring soundtrack to my uncontrollable shaking hands. This moment was a stark, harrowing departure from the relatively benign emergencies I'd encountered before, far worse than the time I had to assist Luke in carefully extracting a long splinter lodged deep within Henri's paw, where the worst outcome was a whimper and a lick.

Glenda paused in her meticulous work, her gaze shifting to me, piercing through the tension. "You okay there, Jamie?" she asked, her voice a mix of concern and focus. "You're not about to pass out?" Her question, though straightforward, carried an undercurrent of support, a recognition of the strain of our unconventional operation room.

"No, I'm fine. Sorry," I managed to reply, my voice betraying the whirlwind of emotions inside me. "You're doing a great job," I added, attempting to mask my unease with encouragement. It felt necessary to acknowledge her skill, even if just to break the heavy silence with words of support.

"We've got a long way to go yet," she replied, her voice steady, grounding us both in the moment. Her determination was a beacon in the fog of my fear, a reminder of the gravity of Joel's situation and the need for steadfastness.

With a renewed sense of purpose, I forced myself to focus on the surgery, to watch as Glenda confidently drove the needle through the other side of Joel's sliced neck. The needle pierced the skin, re-emerging on the opposite side with a precision that was both awe-inspiring and terrifying. My hands, however, betrayed my attempt at composure, trembling anew with the visceral reality of the situation.

I closed my eyes briefly, seeking solace in the darkness behind my lids. I inhaled deeply, trying to steady the storm within. It's only for a moment. The words echoed in my mind, a mantra to anchor me to the present, to the necessity of the task at hand. "Just for a moment," I whispered under my breath, a silent pledge to myself and to Joel. I opened my eyes, resolved to bear witness, to support Glenda's skilled hands with my own, however unsteady they might be. This moment, as harrowing as it was, was about survival, about doing whatever it took to save my son.

The passage of time seemed to defy all natural laws. Seconds stretched into minutes, each minute dilating into what felt like an endless hour. My role, largely that of a spectator armed with a tray of surgical instruments, forced me into a state of hyper-awareness. Every so often, I had to close my eyes, if only to escape the sight of Joel's open wound, to give myself a momentary reprieve from the tension that clung to the air like a thick fog.

It was during one of these brief retreats into darkness that I heard Glenda's voice cut through the heavy silence, her tone vibrant with triumph. “We did it!" she exclaimed loudly, her words acting as a beacon, pulling me back to the present. My eyes snapped open, the moment of relief lasting longer than I had initially anticipated. The surge of hope that followed her announcement was palpable, washing over me like a wave, offering a brief respite from the relentless anxiety that had taken residence in my chest.

I looked down at Joel, my son, lying still on the mattress. Glenda had closed the slice on his neck with perfect precision, her skilled hands transforming what once was a gaping wound into a neatly sutured line. The sight of it, so clinical yet so profoundly personal, stirred a complex mixture of emotions within me.

"So, he'll be okay now?" I found myself asking, my voice laced with a cautious optimism. The question hung in the air between us, fragile and laden with the weight of a father's hope.

For a fleeting moment, Glenda's smile had been a reassuring beacon. But as quickly as it appeared, it vanished, replaced by a sombre expression that seemed to draw the warmth from the room. The shift was jarring, like a sudden plunge into cold water, and a lump formed in my throat as my heart sank, heavy with dread.

The absence of her smile, that sudden withdrawal of reassurance, spoke volumes, conveying a complexity of outcomes that words could not. It was a stark reminder that the path to recovery was fraught with uncertainty, that the closing of a physical wound did not immediately translate to a guarantee of well-being.

The moment Joel gasped for air, it shattered the fragile calm that had settled over us. His desperate attempts to breathe, so reminiscent of a fish out of water gasping for life, sent a jolt of fear straight through my heart. The stark, haunting image of my son struggling for each breath was something I could have never prepared for, an ordeal that seemed to wrench the very soul from my chest.

Caught utterly off guard by the sudden turn of events, my grip faltered, and the tray I had been holding, along with its meticulously arranged medical instruments, crashed to the floor of the tent. The loud clang echoed off the canvas walls, a grim soundtrack to the chaos unfurling before my eyes.

Glenda, too, was taken by surprise. She fell backwards with a startled exclamation, "Shit," a rare slip that underscored the abruptness of the situation.

"Help him," I insisted, my voice tinged with panic, as if my words could somehow bridge the gap between our desperation and the solution we so urgently needed. But the rushing panic was not just in my head; it was a tidal wave threatening to engulf me.

"I don't understand," Glenda replied, her voice laced with confusion and a hint of fear. "This is out of my scope. I'm not trained for this." Her admission was a cold splash of reality, a stark reminder of our isolation and the limitations we faced. My eyes widened in fear at her words. What does she mean, not trained? She had just stitched his throat back together with such confidence and skill. How could this be beyond her?

In a frantic effort to regain control, Glenda grabbed hold of Joel's arms, pinning them down as his body began to convulse, a terrifying testament to his struggle. The sight of my son in such a state, fighting against his own body, was a sight so devastating that it threatened to break me.

And then, as abruptly as it had begun, Joel went still. His eyelids fluttered closed, the storm of convulsions ceasing as a haunting silence filled the tent. The absence of movement, the sudden stillness, was as shocking as the convulsions had been. My heart, which had been racing moments before, now felt as if it had stopped entirely, caught in the horrifying limbo of waiting for what would come next.

As I stared, wide-eyed, at my son's motionless form, a chilling wave of disbelief washed over me. What's happening? The question ricocheted through my mind, a desperate plea for some semblance of understanding. Why did Joel’s eyes close?

Slowly, with a heaviness that seemed to pull at her very soul, Glenda released her grip on Joel and backed away. Her movements were those of someone carrying a burden far too heavy, her next words even heavier. "I'm so sorry, Jamie. He really isn't alive," she told me, her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes unable to meet mine. The distance she put between us felt like a chasm.

My head began to swirl with emotion, a maelstrom of confusion, denial, and burgeoning grief. I don't understand. The thought was a mantra, a feeble attempt to shield myself from the truth. Glenda's a doctor. She's supposed to save him. The role of a healer, a saviour, was one I had unconsciously bestowed upon her, and the realisation that even she had limits was a bitter pill that I wasn’t yet prepared to swallow. I gave a big sniff, struggling to navigate through the fog of my emotions. "Can't you resuscitate him?" I asked, my voice breaking between light sobs, clinging to the hope that perhaps, just perhaps, there was something more that could be done.

"He has no blood for his heart to pump around his body," Glenda explained slowly, the weight of each word seemingly crushing her. "I'm sorry, Jamie," she whispered, a solitary tear tracing its way down her cheek—a testament to the depth of her empathy, to the pain of bearing witness to such a loss.

It was then, in the depths of my despair, that the soft voice of Clivilius spoke inside my mind, offering a stark contrast to the tangible grief that enveloped me. Surrender to me, Jamie. The words, imbued with an eerie calm, promised an escape, a way out. New life, remember?

But, I replied silently, my mind grappling with the offer, the temptation. But I don't understand. The confusion was overwhelming, a tumultuous sea in which I was drowning. I thought you'd already given me new life? The question was a plea for clarity, for some sign that the bargain struck was not in vain, that there was still hope amidst the despair.

Surrender, Jamie Greyson, the voice whispered again, a siren's call beckoning me towards an unknown fate.

In that moment, a primal, instinctual understanding surged within me, guiding my actions with a clarity that seemed to cut through the fog of despair. I reached out, my hand firmly grasping Glenda's arm, compelling her attention towards the desperate plan forming in my mind. "We have to take him back to the lagoon," I declared, my voice imbued with a determination that brooked no argument, even as it masked the tempest of fear and hope wrestling within me.

"But why?" Glenda countered, her confusion evident in the shake of her head, her brow furrowed in a mixture of skepticism and concern. "What good will that do him now?" Her question, logical and laden with the weight of reality, sought to anchor me back to the harshness of our present circumstances.

"We have to try," I insisted, my resolve undeterred. I quickly crouched above Joel's head, my hands positioning themselves under his shoulders in preparation to lift him. The action, so simple yet so charged with urgency, was a physical manifestation of my refusal to succumb to despair.

"It's no use, Jamie. He's gone," Glenda said softly, her voice a gentle, sorrowful attempt to cushion the blow, to bring me back to the cruel finality we faced. Her words, meant to be kind, instead felt like another brick of grief added to my burden.

Tears streamed down my face without restraint, the dam of my emotions breached by the overwhelming tide of loss and desperation. "Please, Glenda," I begged, my voice breaking, my plea a raw, exposed nerve. "Help me." The vulnerability in my request laid bare the depth of my anguish, a father's plea for his child's life.

Another silent tear traced its way down Glenda's cheeks, a mirror to my own sorrow. She closed her eyes, perhaps in a moment of prayer, of resignation, or of gathering strength. "Please," I croaked through the pain, the word barely more than a whisper torn from the depths of my despair.

Surrender! Clivilius roared within my mind, the voice demanding, unyielding.

Driven by desperation, I lifted Joel with a soft grunt, the effort burning my chest, every muscle strained under the weight of my son and the weight of our shared ordeal. Joel's feet fell from the mattress with a soft thud, a poignant reminder of the gravity of my actions as I dragged him around the still kneeling Glenda and across the tent, a macabre procession fuelled by a father's love and a sliver of hope.

Glenda, witnessing the depth of my determination, rose to her feet and helped me lift Joel's shoulders, her actions a silent concession to my plea, a joining of forces in the face of the incomprehensible. Knowing Glenda's sense of helplessness, recognising the sacrifice of her professional judgment in this moment of shared humanity, I gave her a silent nod of appreciation. It was a small gesture, but within it lay the entirety of my gratitude and the unspoken understanding between us: in the face of the unfathomable, we choose to act, to try, despite the odds.

As we emerged from the tent, the stark contrast between the inside's sombre atmosphere and the outside's harsh, unyielding daylight struck me with force. Glenda's voice, strained yet clear, cut through the heavy air as she called out, "Paul! Kain!" Her words were a beacon, summoning aid in our moment of desperate need as we navigated the uneven ground with Joel's heavy, lifeless body between us.

The toll of the emotional and physical strain became abruptly visible when Glenda's legs gave way. Her knees hit the dust with a dull thud, stirring up a cloud that momentarily enveloped her in a fine, gritty haze. The sight of her collapsing, even as she clung to her professionalism, was a vivid reminder of the day's harrowing reality.

Paul and Kain, responding with the urgency Glenda's call demanded, rushed toward us. Their approach was swift, their faces etched with concern and confusion, mirroring the tumultuous swirl of emotions churning within me. I wished I could help her, extend a hand to lift her from the ground, but my arms were bound in duty to Joel.

With a resilience that seemed to define her, Glenda brushed herself off, the dust clinging to her clothes serving as a stark symbol of our ordeal. She rose to her feet, her movements quick but shaky.

"I'll take him," Paul announced, his voice firm, offering a semblance of stability. He reached across Glenda, his hands finding purchase on Joel's shoulder, an act of solidarity and support.

"Where are we taking him?" Kain's voice, laden with a mix of uncertainty and readiness to act, broke through the thick air as he relieved me of Joel's other shoulder.

"To the lagoon," Glenda instructed, her voice carrying the weight of command yet underscored by a tremor of vulnerability. Her directive, concise and clear, propelled us forward, a small procession united in a singular, desperate purpose. The lagoon, a place of natural beauty and tranquility, now beckoned us with the promise of miracles, of salvation found in the embrace of its serene waters.