Relieved barely scratches the surface of how I felt, discovering Glenda had transitioned from her earlier task to a new endeavour—cooking breakfast—by the time Duke and I made it back with the water. The morning had stretched on with me holed up in the tent, offering Joel company, and consciously steering clear of the others. The tent's confines offered a sanctuary, a place where the complexities of our group dynamics could be momentarily forgotten, and where I could focus on the simple act of being there for Joel.
"Smells good," Joel's voice broke through the silence, a croak that betrayed the discomfort he was still feeling.
His words pulled me out of my reflections, and I glanced at him, noticing how the simple statement seemed like an effort. "Do you think you could eat?" I found myself asking. There was hope in my voice, a silent plea that maybe, just maybe, he was feeling a bit better.
"I could try." His response was weak but determined
As if on cue, the unmistakable aroma of bacon filled the air, a rich, savoury scent that immediately made my mouth water. It's true, it does smell good, I admitted to myself, my stomach chiming in with its agreement. There was something about the smell of bacon that felt like a warm embrace, a comfort that seemed to cut through the chill of the morning.
"I'll go and get you some," I said to Joel, pushing myself to my feet.
As I stepped out of the tent's shelter, Duke brushed past me with an urgency that brought a small smile to my face. His excitement was palpable, a blur of fur as he darted towards Glenda, positioning himself beside her with his tail whipping back and forth in a frenzy of anticipation. It was a simple joy, watching him so full of life and expectation.
Glenda, caught up in the moment, broke off a small piece of bacon and offered it to Duke. He accepted it with a dignified grace that seemed almost out of place in the wilderness, his mannerisms gentle, a testament to his character. Duke always had this refined approach to life, embodying a level of sophistication that belied his canine nature.
As this quiet scene unfolded, Henri, with his unmistakable foxy tail signalling his arrival, joined the assembly, his movements driven by a singular focus on the food. His presence was sudden, a stark contrast to Duke's measured approach, and his tail moved with a wild enthusiasm that seemed to capture his entire being's excitement for the prospect of a treat.
"Careful, he's a little…" My warning trailed off as Glenda extended a piece of bacon towards Henri. In an instant, his mouth expanded, a surprising display of eagerness and lack of restraint that caught Glenda off guard.
"Shit!" Glenda's reaction was swift, her hand retreating from Henri's less-than-gentle grasp on the treat. The moment was startling, yet it carried an undercurrent of humour that was hard to ignore.
"Shark," I finished with a laugh, the comparison between the two dogs becoming even more apparent in that moment. Duke, with his graceful acceptance of treats, and Henri, whose enthusiasm for food knew no bounds, were a study in contrasts. Henri, typically so calm and unassuming, transformed into a creature of sheer impulse at the sight of food, a transformation that was both amusing and slightly alarming.
"But he's always so placid," Glenda remarked, her gaze fixed on Henri as he devoured the bacon with only a token effort at chewing. Her surprise was genuine, a reflection of how Henri's demeanour shifted so dramatically in the presence of food.
"Unless there's food involved," I echoed, my own observations of Henri's behaviour coming to the forefront. "And he always seems to know when and where." It was a trait that fascinated and bewildered me, Henri's uncanny ability to appear precisely at the moment food was present, as if guided by an internal compass.
"Hmph," Glenda's response was a mix of resignation and amusement, her hands now safely tucked away from Henri's eager sniffs.
"No more, Henri. You've already had your breakfast," I stated firmly, addressing the young dog with a tone that brooked no argument. Henri, for all his eagerness, seemed to understand, even if his disappointment was palpable.
"You need to make sure you eat some breakfast too," Glenda said, as with a practiced hand, she assembled a breakfast plate that seemed to promise a momentary reprieve from the tensions that had woven themselves into the fabric of our days. She placed several rashes of bacon and a generous spoonful of scrambled eggs onto a plate, extending it towards me with a care that felt both comforting and necessary.
"Thank you," I responded, my gratitude genuine as I accepted the plate, the warmth from the food seeping into my hands. "Is there some for Joel too?" My concern for Joel was ever-present, a constant hum in the background of my thoughts, influencing my every action.
"Of course," Glenda affirmed. She reached for a second plate, her movements deliberate. "Have some beans too," she added, indicating for me to lower my plate again.
"Thanks, smells good," I commented, allowing the aroma of the meal to wash over me. The smell was comforting, familiar, and for a moment, it felt as though we could be anywhere else in the world—a momentary escape. My stomach responded with a loud, unmistakable growl, a testament to the hunger that gnawed at me, not just for food but for a sense of peace.
"Paul! Kain!" Glenda's call, robust and carrying, broke the momentary calm, her voice echoing through the campsite as she summoned the others for breakfast. She placed the frying pan on a nearby log, her posture shifting as she prepared to distribute the meal.
"Where are they?" I found myself asking, even as I bit into a piece of bacon, the savoury taste a sharp contrast to the bitterness of our situation. My thoughts briefly flickered back to a similar morning, the routine shattered by Luke’s unforeseen demand to collect Paul from the airport. The memory served a sharp reminder of how quickly things had spiralled.
"Drop Zone. I'm surprised they're not back by now," Glenda mused, her tone casual but underlined with concern.
"Hmph," was all I could muster in response, my interest in dissecting Luke's decisions or contemplating the wider implications of our predicament waning. My priority was clear, crystallised in the concern for my son. "Thanks," I repeated to Glenda.
Turning towards the tent, Joel's plate in hand, I felt the weight of responsibility settle over me. The mess Luke had left us in, the uncertainty of our situation, it all paled in comparison to the simple, undeniable truth that I had a son to take care of.
Glenda's words trailed after me, her intention clear but her phrasing striking a nerve. "I'd like to be present when you feed him," she said, her steps echoing softly on the ground as she followed.
"Feed him!? He's not a dog!" The irritation bubbled up inside me, quick and fierce. The comparison, even if unintended, grated against my already frayed nerves. The situation was tense enough without reducing Joel's dignity to that of an animal's feeding time.
"Speaking of dogs, I wouldn't leave any of the food unattended while the little shark is circling." My attempt to lighten the mood, to bridge the gap her previous comment had widened, did little to soothe my annoyance.
"Hmm," Glenda mused, a practical note in her voice as she returned to her vigil by the fire, ready to defend the meal from Henri's opportunistic advances. "Let me know how you get on then."
"Sure," I managed, the word leaving me with a mix of resignation and a renewed focus on the task at hand. With Duke at my heels, a silent, comforting presence, I made my way back to the tent, the fabric flaps offering a semblance of privacy in the vast openness of our surroundings.
Entering the tent, the muted light casting long shadows, I presented the plate to Joel. "Here, see how you go," I said, trying to keep my voice steady, encouraging. "You might need to leave the bacon if it's too hard to chew or scratchy on your throat."
Joel's response was nonverbal, a silent nod as he carefully selected a bean, his movements deliberate as he placed it into his mouth.
Then, without warning, a scream shattered the calm, a sharp, terrifying intrusion. It propelled me out of the tent in an instant, every sense heightened, every nerve on edge.
"I'll go," Glenda's voice reached me, steady and decisive as she rose to her feet. "You watch the food."
Our agreement was silent, a mutual understanding in the midst of crisis. I hurried toward the campfire, the scream still echoing in my mind, a harbinger of turmoil. The air seemed to thicken around me, heavy with anticipation and dread as I watched Glenda disappear over the dune's crest.
The scream, so unexpected, so filled with terror, left a cold trail down my spine. And as I stood there, the grimace on my face reflecting the turmoil within, a single thought pierced the confusion. Luke is here! The implications of that realisation, the myriad ways it could unfold, weighed heavily on me, a storm cloud threatening to burst.
