The gentle intrusion of early morning sunlight coaxed my eyes open, marking the start of another day. Lying there for a moment longer, I allowed myself the luxury of stillness, half-expecting the familiar chorus of birdsong that had always signified dawn back on Earth. But the silence that met my ears was a stark reminder of our alien surroundings. No melodious greetings, no wind rustling through the treetops—just a profound quiet that seemed to envelop everything.

My face contorted with the weight of realisation as the events of the previous day, the reality of our situation, came crashing back. Clivilius was real. This stark, silent world was now my home. The finality of that thought pressed down on me, a tangible reminder of the distance between this life and the one I had known.

With a sigh, I rolled off the blanket, the motions mechanical. Folding it neatly, I placed it back in the corner of the tent.

Stepping outside into the crisp morning air, I squinted against the low sun on the horizon, its rays casting long shadows on the ground. I found myself trying to gauge the time, an instinctive reach for normalcy in a world where every familiar reference point had been stripped away. My phone, the keeper of time, dates, and alarms, was now with Luke, and my smartwatch was a world away, left behind on my desk in a last-minute oversight that now seemed almost prophetic.

Estimating the time to be somewhere between six and seven in the morning, I couldn't help but muse on the assumption that Clivilius operated on a time scale remotely similar to Earth's. The realisation that even something as fundamental as time might not align with what I knew was a sobering thought. It underscored the vastness of the unknowns we faced, the need to adapt not just to a new environment, but to a wholly different way of experiencing life itself.

Surveying the camp for any signs of life, I noted the stillness that enveloped us, a stark contrast to the chaos of the previous day. My gaze settled on Paul, who was sprawled near the remnants of last night's campfire, now nothing more than a bed of cold ashes. He was asleep, his chest rising and falling with each deep, peaceful breath, a soft snore escaping him now and then. Despite the discomfort of his makeshift bed on the ground, it seemed he had managed to find some semblance of rest amidst the unfamiliarity of our surroundings. Observing his tranquil state, I couldn't help but feel a tinge of envy; sleep had eluded me for much of the night as I grappled with my new reality.

The realisation that I too had eventually succumbed to sleep, however brief, was a small comfort. The exhaustion from the day's events had finally overtaken me, pulling me into a restless slumber filled with tossing and turning. My introduction to Clivilius had been nothing short of a whirlwind—a mix of anticipation, anxiety, and medical emergencies. I had expected the transition to be challenging, but the reality was something else entirely. I had braced myself for the overwhelming, for a sensory overload of new sights and experiences. Instead, I found myself navigating a landscape that was as mentally and emotionally taxing as it was physically barren.

As I stood alone with the extinguished campfire and my companions still enveloped in sleep, a fleeting sense of fortune crossed my mind, grateful for the uneventful night that had passed. The silence and tranquility of dawn allowed me to take in our surroundings with fresh eyes. The dusty brown hills stretched endlessly, interrupted only by the clear river weaving through them like a lifeline. Observing the vast openness, I reasoned that the likelihood of an unexpected encounter was minimal. The natural geography of Clivilius, with its expansive views and the absence of barriers for sound to travel, provided a sort of natural early warning system. For now, at least, our biggest threat is ourselves, I concluded silently, a realisation that was both reassuring and daunting.

This acknowledgment, however, brought forth a deeper, more unsettling reflection. As the warmth of the morning sun kissed my bare arms, I considered the harshness of the environment that enveloped us. The prospect of not just surviving but thriving in such conditions seemed increasingly remote, a notion that sent an involuntary shiver down my spine. I am just a person, among a small group of other persons, I mused, the reality of our vulnerability pressing in. The thought of our small, unprepared group trying to carve out an existence in this barren landscape was overwhelming.

Yet, I couldn't afford to dwell on these fears. The immediacy of our situation, particularly Jamie's condition, demanded my focus and energies. Jamie needs my attention, I reminded myself, pushing aside the creeping dread with a determined shake of my head. The well-being of each member of our group was paramount; our survival depended on our collective health and strength. Helping Jamie to recover fully was not just a matter of medical duty but a crucial step in maintaining the integrity of our small community. Each one of us matters, I affirmed, grounding myself in the responsibility I held as both a doctor and as Bixbus’s newest resident.

Unzipping the tent with the intention of checking on Jamie, I was wholly unprepared for the sight that greeted me. The shock of seeing Jamie in such a vulnerable state, caught in the midst of dressing, sent a flush of embarrassment coursing through me. "Oh, I'm so sorry," I stammered out, hastily closing my eyes in a futile attempt to erase the image that had already imprinted itself in my mind.

With my face undoubtedly coloured with embarrassment, I swiftly turned away, allowing the tent flap to fall back into place as I moved to the side, trying to regain my composure. The sound of Jamie's chuckle from within the tent, light and unbothered, eased some of my tension. His reaction, or lack thereof, to the intrusion suggested he was not as perturbed by the incident as I was.

"I didn't expect you to be up and moving so soon," I managed to say, my voice carrying a mixture of surprise and relief. My caution was evident in the way I deliberately avoided turning my head back towards him, an attempt to maintain some semblance of dignity after the accidental invasion of his privacy.

Jamie's light-hearted response, accompanied by another chuckle, offered a moment of levity amidst the awkwardness. "It's okay," he assured me, his head appearing through the tent flap as he spoke, providing a startling but welcome indication of his improving condition.

Emerging from the tent, Duke barrelled through with a determination that momentarily shifted the morning's focus, was a light-hearted distraction. He dove nose-first into the dust, embarking on an exploration that seemed to disregard our human concerns entirely. Henri, less bold but equally curious, lingered until Jamie's gentle nudge sent him scampering after Duke. The sight of the dogs, so easily slipping into their routines of play and investigation, offered a brief respite from the weight of our circumstances.

Jamie, now more suitably attired in boardshorts and a t-shirt, stepped into the morning light, a visual reminder of the day's new beginning. "How are you feeling this morning?" I inquired, genuinely interested in his recovery progress. His response, indicating a significant improvement in his condition, brought a wave of relief. "Much better. My chest doesn't feel nearly as sore," he shared, his actions—stretching his arms above his head—mirroring the lightness in his tone.

"That's good news," I acknowledged, my professional assessment mingling with personal relief.

"I was about to go and take Duke for a walk. We've both been rather cooped up the last twenty-four hours. I think it'll do us both some good," Jamie proposed.

"I agree," I found myself saying. "But I need to change your dressing before you go," I added, my tone shifting to one of gentle insistence. The balance between allowing Jamie the freedom to regain his strength and ensuring his continued healing was a delicate one.

"Fine," Jamie acquiesced, his compliance accompanied by the simple action of pulling his shirt over his head. The readiness with which he agreed to the necessary medical intervention was a testament to his growing trust in my care, a small but significant affirmation considering yesterday’s agitated outbursts.

As I gently removed the dressing that covered Jamie's wound, the sight of his healing chest prompted a small wave of relief. "It is looking much better," I observed aloud, allowing a hint of optimism to colour my tone. Jamie's smile in response was a small victory, a sign that we were moving in the right direction, however incrementally.

The practical part of me kicked in as I considered the next step. "Why don't you lay back down while I grab some fresh dressings from the supply tent." It was a reasonable request, given the circumstances, but Jamie's hesitation was palpable. His gaze shifted back to the tent, laden with a reluctance that mirrored my own internal conflict about the prospect of him returning to the confines of his makeshift recovery area. "Really?" he questioned, the single word heavy with the unspoken acknowledgment of the effort it had taken him to rise.

I empathised deeply with his sentiment. The thought of re-entering the tent after finally feeling the morning air and the freedom of being outside was not appealing. "Just for five minutes," I insisted, trying to strike a balance between his comfort and the necessity of the situation. The absence of basic furniture like a chair in our makeshift camp was a reminder of the many conveniences we had left behind. "If we had a chair, I'd say you could sit, but we don't."

Jamie frowned.

"Yet," I quickly added, hoping to infuse a bit of hope into the situation. "We don't have a chair, yet."

"Fine," Jamie huffed, his compliance mixed with a touch of defiance as he turned to return to the tent. In that moment, the interplay of patient and caregiver, of frustration and determination, encapsulated our shared struggle to find a semblance of normalcy in an environment that was anything but normal.

Gathering the fresh dressings and other medical supplies needed for Jamie's care felt like a small but significant mission. The supply tent, with its orderly rows of necessities, was a reminder of the semblance of structure I was striving to maintain. As I made my way back, I couldn't help but notice Henri's cautious approach toward Paul, who remained lost in slumber, his snoring a gentle backdrop to the morning's activities. The sight of Henri, so focused and yet tentative in his approach, brought a soft chuckle from me. The innocence of the moment, the normalcy of a dog's curiosity, provided a brief respite from my constant concerns.

It's only a matter of time, I mused to myself, a smile playing on my lips. The thought wasn't just about Henri potentially waking Paul with an enthusiastic sniff or an unexpected nudge. It was more reflective of the broader situation we found ourselves in—this delicate balance of tension and tranquility, of adjusting to life in Clivilius with its unknowns and surprises.

Watching Henri's slow progress toward Paul, I was reminded of the simple, everyday moments that brought us joy back on Earth, moments now tinged with the surreal realisation that we were millions of miles away from everything we knew. Yet, here we were, finding small pockets of normalcy in the midst of the extraordinary.

As I gently dabbed away the last of the water from Jamie's chest, I couldn't help but marvel at the marked improvement in his condition. "This really is looking much better already," I remarked, a note of genuine surprise in my voice. The burns that had seemed so threatening initially now appeared superficial, and the once alarming signs of infection from the splinter had receded significantly. "Your burns look superficial. Most of the damage appears to have been from the splinter's infection." Observing the rapid healing, my professional curiosity piqued, my brow furrowed in thought. The rapid pace of recovery was unexpected; such a significant improvement in less than twenty-four hours was unusual, even by Earth standards. Which, now that I think of it, the damage also seemed to have progressed quite rapidly considering how severe it had become in less than twenty-four hours. The thought lingered in my mind, stirring a mix of concern and wonder. Is there something else going on here…?

This question hovered in the air, unspoken yet palpable. The unique environment of Clivilius, with all its unknown variables, could be influencing both the decline and the healing processes in ways I hadn't anticipated. The possibility of alien microorganisms, the planet's atmosphere, or even Jamie's own physiological response to this world could be factors contributing to his rapid conditions. This realisation prompted a mental note to closely monitor his progress and to remain vigilant for any other unexpected developments in our health while we adapted to our new surroundings.

Jamie's response pulled me from my wandering thoughts. "I really don't feel much pain now at all," he assured me.

Continuing my examination, I sought further confirmation of his recovery. "And you've had no complaints with any upper body movements?" I inquired, securing the final piece of gauze over his wounds with medical tape. The absence of discomfort or limitation in movement would be a strong indicator of his healing progress.

"None," Jamie affirmed, his broad smile serving as a visual punctuation to his words. His positive response, coupled with the visible improvement in his condition, was a moment of triumph, however small in the grand scheme of our challenges.

"That's great news," I declared, my voice carrying both professional approval and personal relief. A light tap on his shoulder signalled the end of the procedure, a gesture meant to convey both reassurance and encouragement.

As Jamie made a swift motion to rise, I could sense his eagerness to get going. "But," I intervened, extending my palm towards him in a gentle yet firm gesture meant to pause his momentum, "I still need you to take another couple of antibiotic capsules."

Jamie's huff, a mixture of frustration and resignation, was an expected response. The interruption to his plans, however minor, was a reminder of the vulnerability he was likely eager to shed. "You'll need to take several daily for the next few days to make sure it doesn't get reinfected," I continued, emphasising the necessity of the medication for his recovery. It was crucial that he understood the importance of completing the course of antibiotics to prevent any setbacks.

The swift manner in which Jamie took the capsules, washing them down with a single gulp of water, was a testament to his acceptance of the situation. "Thanks," he muttered, a simple acknowledgment that carried a hint of appreciation beneath the surface irritation. Watching him wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, I couldn't help but admire his resilience.

As he stood and began to dress, I observed him closely, noting a slight stiffness in his left shoulder. The observation was filed away for later attention—perhaps a therapeutic massage could ease the tension and aid in his recovery. "You're good to go," I announced, offering a supportive pat on his back as a sign of reassurance and approval.

My final instructions were given with a mix of concern and authority. "But don't go too far. And the moment you start to feel tired or any dizziness, you need to stop and rest. Then as soon as you are able, make your way back to camp."

Jamie's nod of acknowledgment was all I expected.

"I'll go downstream," Jamie announced as we emerged from the tent, his voice carrying a hint of excitement at the prospect of exploring our surroundings. "There's a lagoon just around the bend. I'll take Duke with me, he'll love it."

"And Henri?" I found myself asking, my gaze shifting towards the smaller of the two dogs. Observing Henri's tentative movements around the campfire, his reluctance to venture into the dust, painted a stark contrast to Duke's eagerness.

Jamie's soft laugh, in response to Henri's hesitation, was tinged with understanding. "I don't think Henri's going to make it too far," he observed.

"I'll keep an eye on him," I volunteered, my offer stemming from a sense of responsibility for the well-being of all members of our small community, including our canine friends. Watching over Henri, ensuring he felt safe and comfortable while Jamie and Duke explored, was a small but significant task I was more than willing to undertake.

As Jamie called Duke to his side and they set off towards the lagoon, I watched them disappear into the distance. Their departure left me alone with my thoughts, and the sudden, loud gurgle from my stomach broke the silence, drawing a smile to my lips. "Time for breakfast," I murmured to myself, a reminder of the simple, everyday needs that continued despite our extraordinary circumstances.

Making my way back to the supply tent, my steps were purposeful, drawn towards the several bags of groceries that we had managed to accumulate in the right wing of our makeshift storage area. As I began to sift through the contents, a slight grimace formed involuntarily. The reality of our culinary situation was laid bare before me—Paul had managed a simple dinner the previous evening, but the prospects for variety and nutrition seemed grim this morning. The assortment was disheartening: tins of corn, baked beans, and an unexpected amount of dog food. It was a collection that hardly promised the well-rounded meals we were accustomed to back on Earth. Luke's going to need some guidance with his food selection, I mused, the thought accompanied by a gentle sigh that carried a mix of resignation and determination.

Amid the tins and packets, a folded sheet of paper caught my eye, an anomaly in the sea of canned sustenance. Curiosity piqued, I unfolded it, my eyebrows raising in surprise. The contents were both unexpected and somewhat amusing—a basic guide to cement-laying. "Interesting," I scoffed lightly, the corners of my mouth turning up in a smile despite the situation. It was a stark reminder of the wide array of challenges we were expected to navigate, far beyond the medical and nutritional. Folding the instructions carefully, I slipped the paper into my back pocket, a symbolic gesture of accepting yet another role I hadn't anticipated taking on here in Clivilius.

"Aha! Finally, something edible for breakfast," I couldn't contain my excitement as I unearthed a box of breakfast muesli bars that had been cleverly hidden at the bottom of the bag. It was a small victory in the ongoing struggle to find suitable food, and my spirits lifted momentarily at the prospect of a somewhat reasonable start to the day.

Stepping outside, the rumbling of my stomach grew louder. Eagerly, I unwrapped one of the bars and took a hearty bite, savouring the taste of something other than canned beans or corn. The realisation that my breakfast would be over all too quickly, likely in another two bites, dimmed my initial excitement. Yet, I consoled myself with the thought that this modest meal would at least provide some basic form of essential energy.

My attention was diverted to Paul, who was beginning to stir by the remains of last night's campfire. The sight of him pushing Henri away from his face, a mix of annoyance and affection in his movements, brought a soft chuckle to my lips. Henri, in his own way, had fulfilled his role, providing a gentle, if somewhat slobbery, wake-up call. "You must have been tired," I called out to him, my voice carrying a mix of amusement and sympathy.

Paul's response, as he looked up towards me, rubbing his neck in an attempt to ease the stiffness that sleep on the ground often brings, was simple. "Yeah, I was," he admitted.

"You fell asleep pretty quick," I remarked, closing the distance between us as Paul sat contemplatively in the dust. Offering him the second breakfast muesli bar, I hoped to share a small portion of comfort. "Here, want some breakfast?" The gesture was as much about nourishment as it was about solidarity, a small act of looking out for one another in this unforgiving environment.

"Thanks, but I think I might go have a quick wash first," he responded, his voice carrying a hint of gratitude mixed with the immediate desire to rid himself of the night's accumulated grime. As he shook the dust from his hair, I couldn't help but empathise with his longing for a semblance of cleanliness, however fleeting it might be.

"In the river?" I asked.

"Yeah," Paul confirmed, a note of resignation in his voice. "It's all we've got."

"Fair enough," I conceded, understanding the importance of maintaining personal hygiene, even in such basic forms. It was a crucial aspect of keeping morale and health in check. "But make sure you eat when you get back. You need to keep your strength up. Soon we start putting up the third tent and then later we pour some concrete."

"Oh?" Paul's voice was tinged with surprise, his eyebrows arching in a way that made me chuckle softly.

"Yes." My smile widened as I shared the news. "I found your concrete instructions. They were in one of the grocery bags."

As Paul stood, his actions were deliberate, a physical shaking off of the night's rest as well as the dust that Clivilius seemed to blanket everything with. His face, contorted in concentration, mirrored the mental shift from the restful state to the readiness required for the day's tasks. His movements, though mundane, were a reminder of the constant adaptation we were all undergoing, each gesture a small rebellion against the dust that sought to claim everything as its own.

I couldn't help but let my gaze wander beyond our immediate vicinity, drawn to the area not far from our campsite where Paul and Jamie had made their first attempt at laying concrete. My curiosity, mixed with a professional concern for our structural endeavours, compelled me to assess their work from afar. Even at a distance, the quality of the concrete work seemed questionable, and a sigh escaped me before I could catch it. What the hell is Paul thinking? The thought was a mixture of worry and exasperation, a mental note to myself that our survival required not just effort but skill and planning.

Despite my reservations about their concrete work, I had to acknowledge the thoughtfulness in their choice of location. It was a strategic decision, balancing proximity to our living area with the need to maintain the integrity and utility of our space.

"Where are Jamie and Duke?" Paul called, his head poking out from within Jamie's tent. It was a simple question, but one that momentarily caught me off guard, snapping me back to the present moment.

I blinked quickly, a physical attempt to sharpen my focus and gather my thoughts. "They've gone for a walk. He seems much better this morning," I responded, my voice carrying a mixture of relief and caution.

"That's good," Paul remarked, a note of genuine relief in his voice before he disappeared back into the tent.

Moments later, Paul reemerged with a follow-up question, "Do you know which way they went?" His interest seemed more than casual, perhaps a reflection of the bond that was forming among our small group, or maybe an acknowledgment of the inherent risks in wandering too far from camp.

"They've headed downstream," I pointed in the direction Jamie and Duke had taken, the gesture accompanied by an explanation of Jamie's mention of a lagoon. As I spoke, my mind drifted to the practical implications of this lagoon's existence. The thought of it possibly offering a secluded spot for bathing was both appealing and necessary. The constant battle against the grime of dust and sweat was becoming increasingly uncomfortable.

"Yeah," Paul said, his voice carrying an ease that I found both appealing and slightly amusing in our current context. "It's a nice spot. There's nothing there except water and dust, but you should check it out sometime."

"I might wait until I have some clothes to change into," I stated, a decision born out of necessity rather than fear or reluctance. The thought of venturing to the lagoon, as inviting as it was, came with its own set of challenges—not least of which was the lack of proper attire for such an activity.

As Paul made his way past me, heading downstream towards the lagoon, a trail of curiosity followed him. The thought crossed my mind—Surely Paul isn't going to bathe with his clothes on. And yet, his direction seemed unmistakably towards Jamie, towards the very spot he had just recommended. His abrupt stop, followed by a self-directed scoff, was a moment of comedy. "Oh!" The realisation that hit him, prompting a sudden change in plans, was as unexpected as it was amusing. His declaration, "I'll go upstream," accompanied by an emphatic point, was a scene so human, so grounded in the everyday awkwardness we had all known before Clivilius, that it momentarily lifted the weight from my shoulders.

Paul's embarrassment, his quick pivot to save face, was endearing. He is a funny man indeed, I mused, the smile that spread across my face a rare and welcome visitor.

Turning away from the scene, my steps took me towards the Portal. The encounter with Paul, the brief escape into the simplicity of human interaction, was a balm. Yet, the Portal represented so much more—a reminder of why we were here, of the vast unknowns that still lay ahead, and of the hope that perhaps, in this strange new world, we might find not just survival, but a way to thrive.