As the darkness enveloped our campsite, the atmosphere shifted from one of survival to something resembling normalcy, if only for a moment. Our bellies full and the bottle of whiskey making its rounds added a warmth that wasn't just from the campfire. A loud cackle, surprising even to myself, erupted from my mouth, cutting through the stillness of the night and filling the empty darkness with a moment of cheer.

"Shh," Glenda hushed, her finger pressed to her lips in a playful yet earnest gesture. "The zombie is sleeping," she whispered, her attempt at solemnity crumbling into a fit of giggles. Her laughter was infectious, a reminder of the lighter moments we could still share amidst the uncertainty.

Kain's chuckle resonated loudly, his amusement clear. "Well, I didn't know how else to describe him." His comment, a reference to Joel's miraculous recovery and current condition, was both apt and humorously grim.

"Are we sure it's safe in there? We don't really know what's going on," I found myself saying, leaning forward with a not-so-quiet voice that betrayed my lingering concern. Despite the laughter and light-hearted banter, the reality of our situation, the unknowns surrounding Joel's condition, hovered at the back of my mind.

"Oh," Luke sighed heavily, his patience with the topic seemingly thinning. "Don't be so stupid, Paul." His retort, though sharp, was not unexpected.

"Ah," I gasped, feigning hurt feelings in an attempt to lighten the mood further.

Luke staggered to his feet, using Glenda's shoulder as a makeshift support. "Of course, it's safe," he muttered, his voice a mixture of assurance and slight irritation as he made his way past me, heading toward the silent tent where Joel and Jamie rested. His movements, slightly unsteady, betrayed the effect of the whiskey more than any concern about Joel's condition.

"Is he alright?" Kain leaned in, his voice hushed, a note of genuine concern laced with the alcohol-induced bravery to ask.

"Oh, he's fine," I answered, dismissing the concern with a slight wave of my hand.

The three of us fell into a calm silence, a respite that felt almost surreal given the chaos that had become our new normal. I stared at the empty plate at my feet, its barren paper surface a reminder of the meagre dinner we had managed. I should've made more sandwiches, I realised, as my stomach responded with a betraying gurgle. Hunger was a constant companion, yet in the face of this world's unending uncertainties, even basic needs became secondary. I was pretty certain we were all guilty of neglecting our health to some extent, all except Glenda, of course. Her reminders about nutritional needs were as frequent as they were well-intentioned, a beacon of care in our fragmented existence.

"Well, dinner was tasty," Glenda offered, her voice cutting through the stillness with a warmth that felt both comforting and misplaced. "I wonder whether now might..."

"Shh," I hushed her, cutting off her words with a sharpness that surprised even me. A sudden, instinctual alertness took hold as my ears picked up on something—a discordant harmony of voices, their pitch and tension rising in a way that set every nerve on edge. It was emanating from the tent, a cacophony that promised nothing good.

Quietly, I pushed myself up from the log that had been my seat, my actions deliberate. As a dark figure burst from the tent, my heart skipped a beat. I recognised Luke immediately—his silhouette unmistakable even in the fleeting shadows.

"Luke!" I called out, desperation tinting my voice, a futile attempt to bridge the distance he was determined to put between us.

But Luke didn’t stop. Instead, he broke into a run, his form swallowed by the darkness that stretched like a chasm between us. I stared after him, my mind a whirlwind of confusion and fear. What the hell just happened? Is he hurt? My body tensed, ready to sprint after him, to cross the void his departure had created.

However, Glenda's hand shot up, warning me off with an abrupt gesture. Her eyes, wide with a mix of caution and fear, locked onto mine, silently urging me to reconsider. In that moment, our world seemed to shrink to the space between us, filled with unspoken worries and the heavy weight of decision.

In the distance, the night was momentarily chased away by the surreal glow of Portal colours, painting our rugged surroundings with fleeting, ethereal light. The display was both beautiful and heart-wrenching, a reminder of the vast, unpredictable universe that now cradled our fates. As quickly as it appeared, the light show vanished, leaving behind a darkness that felt even more profound.

My face tightened into a deep frown, the muscles around my mouth and eyes contracting with a mixture of frustration and concern. Luke's gone. The words echoed in my mind like a haunting refrain. He's left us again.

"Yep, looks like it's definitely you and me tonight, Paul," Kain's voice broke through my thoughts, his tone attempting levity but failing to mask the underlying tension.

"I guess so," I sighed, the weight of the situation settling heavily upon my shoulders. "I might get used to this dust yet," I said with a half-hearted attempt at humour, sitting back on the log and absently patting the ground with my foot, sending small clouds of dust swirling into the air.

"Oh no," Glenda interjected. "There's a sleeping bag for you in the other tent."

"Really?" I asked, my surprise genuine. The thought of a sleeping bag, an artefact of comfort in this desolate world, felt almost luxurious. "That should make a nice change." I looked over at Kain, offering a semblance of a smile. "But the tent's all yours," I said casually, though a part of me craved that minor comfort. "I'll sleep out here again tonight. I don't want to let the fire completely burn out." My gaze lingered on the flames, their flickering light a fragile barrier against the encroaching darkness.

Kain looked at me, his surprise evident. "Don't like the dark?" he probed, an undercurrent of curiosity in his voice.

"Hmph," I managed, a non-committal grunt, as I glanced across at Glenda, seeking an ally in my ambiguous response. "Something like that."

"Is there something out there?" Kain pressed, his voice lowering to a cautious whisper. "Other people maybe?"

"Not that we know of," I replied quickly, too quickly perhaps. But is that really true? I couldn't help but question myself. Luke had shared whispers of a Guardian named Cody, a figure shrouded in mystery who was supposedly out there, somewhere in the vast unknown. He hadn't shown up at camp, at least not within the sphere of my awareness. He must be somewhere out there, I mused, my gaze drifting beyond the firelight to the expanse of darkened emptiness that stretched before us.

The night seemed to hold its breath, the silence a canvas on which my fears and speculations painted vivid pictures. The idea of Cody, a Guardian lurking unseen, added layers to the night's shadows, each movement of air or crackle of firewood a potential signal of his presence. And yet, the part of me that clung to the remnants of hope wondered if perhaps his existence out there could be a beacon, a sign that we were not alone in this struggle to survive and make sense of a world turned upside down.

"But," Kain's voice cut through the tension that hung like a thick fog around us, his words louder, more forceful than before, "If Luke is telling the truth about not bringing—" He paused, the weight of his thoughts momentarily halting his speech before he pressed on, "About not bringing Joel here, then who did? And how did they get him here without any of us seeing something? There isn't exactly any cover here. And he looked like he'd spent a fair amount of time in the water already."

Yes, of course! My mind screamed in silent revelation. If we follow the river upstream far enough, we'll likely find the source of Joel's... My thoughts trailed off, a mixture of dread and determination settling in. The mystery of Joel's appearance wasn't just a puzzle; it was a gaping hole in our understanding of this place, a place that seemed to defy the very laws of nature and humanity we thought we knew.

Glenda shifted uncomfortably on her log, her movements drawing my attention away from the spiralling thoughts. Her constant shuffles, the physical manifestations of her anxiety, were beginning to grate on me, adding to the already overwhelming tension.

"Do you know something that you're not telling us?" I asked, my voice carrying an edge of suspicion and frustration. It wasn't just the situation with Joel that bothered me; it was the ever-present feeling that we were all holding back pieces of a puzzle only solvable through collective honesty.

Glenda hesitated, her eyes darting between Kain and me, as if measuring the weight of her words against the potential consequences of sharing them. "I'm just as confused as the two of you are," she said finally, her voice a mix of resignation and defensiveness.

Kain's breathing quickened noticeably, a physical testament to the rising fear and uncertainty that seemed to suffocate us. "I don't think we're safe here," he whispered, the words barely escaping his lips, as if saying them louder might make them more real.

I let out a soft sigh, the sound more a release of pent-up frustration than anything else. Here I sat, caught in a web of mysteries and half-truths, with a woman who played her cards close to her chest and a young man whose fear seemed to amplify with every breath. And then there was Luke, with his erratic behaviour and enigmatic warnings, and Jamie, whose newfound obsession with his son painted a picture of desperation and denial. According to Luke, Joel should be nothing more than a memory, yet here we were, grappling with a reality that seemed to mock the very essence of logic and loss.

"Right now, we don't have any other option," I said, trying to inject a note of certainty into my voice. The flickering shadows cast by the campfire seemed to dance with my words, creating an eerie ballet of light and darkness. "I'm sure Luke would have warned us if it wasn't safe." My statement hung in the air, a fragile banner of hope in the uneasy silence that enveloped us.

Kain scoffed loudly, a sound that cut sharply through the night. "Luke doesn't know everything." His skepticism was palpable, a tangible force that seemed to add weight to the growing unease within me.

My eyebrow raised in suspicion at his quick dismissal. I knew that was indeed an understatement—Luke's knowledge, or lack thereof, had been a recurring theme in our struggles. But does Kain know something else too? The question wormed its way through my thoughts, unsettling me further. Is he hiding something that could put us all in danger? My stomach growled uneasily, a reminder of the physical demands that mirrored our psychological turmoil. We can't afford to be divided, I realised. We need a leader, someone with the skills and charisma to unite our growing settlement, to navigate the treacherous waters of uncertainty that lay ahead.

"We'll just have to watch out for each other," I told them emphatically, trying to bridge the gaps of mistrust and fear with words of solidarity. "We're all we've got right now," I said pointedly, glancing across at Glenda, hoping to find some semblance of agreement or reassurance in her eyes.

Glenda shifted uncomfortably again, her movements betraying an inner turmoil or perhaps a reluctance to confront the reality we faced. "I think it's time for bed," she said abruptly, slapping both her thighs in a motion that seemed to signal a retreat more from the conversation than the night. Without another word, she got up and left the warmth of the campfire.

Probably a good idea, although that was a bit sudden, I mused, watching her retreating back. The night air felt cooler now, the absence of her presence making the darkness seem more oppressive. "I'll go grab a sleeping bag," I said to Kain, pushing myself up from the ground, my limbs stiff from sitting. The action felt like a physical attempt to shake off the tension that had settled around us. "Does it matter which one?"

Kain shook his head, his gaze lingering on the dying fire. "Nah."

I casually made my way to the tent, the night around me thick with shadows that seemed to stretch and reach out with every step I took. As I let myself inside, the darkness enveloped me, a stark contrast to the weak flicker of light from the distant campfire. This tent, the furthest from our makeshift hearth, lay in near complete darkness, the glow barely brushing its entrance with a teasing touch of light. Suddenly, a familiar cry echoed in my mind, Daddy! Rose's voice, filled with fear and longing, sent a shuddering wave of terror crashing over me. My heart clenched, a physical reaction to the pain of her absence.

Not tonight, I told the darkness, my voice a silent declaration of defiance. My fingers found the sleeping bag's carry strap, their grip firm and resolute. Not tonight. I refused to let the haunting memories and what-ifs consume me, not when survival demanded every ounce of focus and strength.

Moving carefully across the tent's floor, I navigated by memory and the faint glow that filtered in. Pushing my way outside, the cool air hit me like a splash of reality, a reminder of the world beyond my fears. The decision to sleep next to the campfire suddenly felt not just wise but necessary. It was a tether to the present, a guard against the ghosts of the past.

As I crept towards the fire, the figures of two bodies moved quietly by the glow. "Glenda," I whispered into the night, my voice barely louder than the crackling of the flames.

She jumped, and Kain pulled on her hand, helping her to maintain balance on her log.

I couldn't help but chuckle softly at her reaction, an involuntary response that felt strangely out of place in the solemnity of our situation. "Sorry," I whispered, the word floating away into the night as I dropped the sleeping bag into the dust in front of my designated log.

"No, you're not," Glenda replied, but the edge in her voice was softened by a smile that seemed to flicker in the firelight.

I perched on the log, my bum cheeks rubbing against the rough wood as I searched for a sense of comfort. The simple act of settling down for the night had taken on a new meaning here; it was a nightly ritual of finding safety and solace. Each shift, each adjustment, was a small declaration of resilience, of our continued struggle against the darkness, both literal and metaphorical.

"You don't like the tent?" Kain's question broke the quiet of the evening, his eyes darting towards the medical tent as if seeking an answer in its silent form.

"Actually," Glenda began, her voice trailing into a pause that seemed to stretch between us, laden with anticipation. "There's something I think we should do as a group first." The seriousness in her tone, mixed with a hint of vulnerability, piqued my interest. After her abrupt departure earlier, this sudden proposal felt unexpected, almost out of character. What could Glenda possibly consider so important that she needed to address it now?

Kain's brow arched, mirroring my own curiosity. "What is it?" he inquired, his voice a mix of skepticism and interest.

"Gratitude," she simply stated.

My head tilted, a gesture of surprise and intrigue. Well, that was unexpected. In a world that seemed perpetually on the brink, where survival often took precedence over everything else, gratitude was not a concept that had frequently crossed my mind.

"Gratitude?" Kain's voice carried a note of disbelief, almost a scoff.

"Hear me out," Glenda quickly interjected, cutting off any potential objections with a gesture of her hand. Her insistence demanded our attention, silencing the immediate skepticism that had bubbled to the surface.

Kain fell into a reluctant silence, and I found myself doing the same, a part of me curious about where this was going.

"It's something my father taught me. I've done it every day since..." Glenda's voice faltered, a rare crack in her composed exterior, and she swallowed hard, as if pushing down memories too painful to fully surface. "It's become a nightly tradition for me," she concluded, her voice steadying once more.

"Oh," was all I could manage, softly spoken, as a new layer of Glenda's character was revealed to us. A woman of mystery, indeed. This revelation offered a glimpse into her inner world, a personal ritual rooted in resilience and memory.

Glenda knelt in the dust near the soft glowing embers of our fire, her silhouette outlined by the faint light. "Come join me," she encouraged, her tone gentle yet persuasive.

Kain shot a glance my way, uncertainty written across his face. The idea seemed foreign, yet disarmingly simple. It couldn't do us any harm, I reasoned, shrugging my shoulders in silent acquiescence before kneeling beside Glenda. The act felt strangely grounding, a physical manifestation of openness to whatever this shared moment might bring.

Kain, however, remained motionless for a moment longer, his skepticism a tangible barrier. "It's okay," Glenda reassured, turning to look up at him with a smile that seemed to bridge the gap between doubt and acceptance. "We're not praying or anything."

Finally, Kain relented, his knees finding the dust opposite Glenda. As we formed a small, unlikely circle around the dying embers, the night around us seemed to hold its breath.

When Kain and I had finally settled into an uneasy quiet, each of us wrestling with our own discomfort amidst the dust at our feet, Glenda broke the silence. "I'll go first," she announced, her voice cutting through the tension like a gentle breeze. I found myself drawn to the warm glow of the fire, its light flickering across her features, painting her with a softness that seemed almost out of place in our harsh surroundings.

"I'm grateful for life," she stated, her words simple yet profound, floating into the night air with a calmness that belied the turmoil of the day.

A whole minute passed, filled with a silence so thick it felt almost tangible. I shifted uncomfortably, the bulk of my weight pressing into my right knee. Is that it? Is it over? The questions raced through my mind, an internal monologue of doubt and confusion. But then, a gentle nudge from Glenda's elbow against my ribs pulled me back to the moment. It was a silent prompt, her way of saying it was my turn to find something, anything, to be grateful for.

I took a deep breath, letting the cool night air fill my lungs as I searched for an answer amidst the scatter of my thoughts. What am I grateful for? The question seemed almost laughable in the context of our current predicament. Jamie's moodiness, Luke's absence, the severance from my children, the looming threat of death in this alien darkness... Yet, despite the despair, I knew there had to be a glimmer of positivity, a single thread to cling to in the overwhelming tapestry of our survival.

Glenda's elbow nudged me again.

"I'm grateful for the river," I finally said, the words escaping my lips before I could fully gauge their weight. A pang of self-consciousness washed over me as I realised how my words might be interpreted. They wouldn't think I meant more than just its healing properties, would they? The river, after all, had been a source of refreshment, a beacon in the vastness of our desolation, but to voice such a specific gratitude felt oddly revealing, as if I were exposing a part of myself I hadn't intended to share.

And then, the awkward silence descended upon us once more, a thick blanket that seemed to wrap around us, binding us in a moment of shared vulnerability.

As the silence stretched into an almost tangible entity, a part of me couldn't help but fight the smile that began to tug at the corner of my mouth. That was three times now that Glenda had nudged Kain, her persistence a testament to her determination in this strange ritual of gratitude. It was a small, almost humorous rebellion against the bleakness that surrounded us.

Then, breaking the silence like a sudden crack of thunder, Kain blurted out, "I'm grateful for Uncle Jamie." The words came out in a rush.

My hand shot to my mouth in an instinctive attempt to stifle a scoff, but it escaped nonetheless, a brief, involuntary sound that I instantly regretted. The look of annoyance that flashed across Kain's face was like a physical blow, and I found myself calling out in apology, "Kain. I'm sorry," as he huffed, his body tense with hurt as he stormed off into the darkness beyond the campfire.

As I unfolded myself from the ground, my knees protesting with audible groans of discomfort, I made to follow him, driven by a sense of responsibility and concern. But Glenda's hand on my arm stopped me, her silent plea of "Don't" hanging between us. Her gaze held mine, a depth of understanding in her eyes. "He'll be back. There's nowhere else to go," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the crackling of the fire. Yet, despite her assurance, doubt gnawed at me. The darkness that lay beyond our small circle of light was a vast, unknown expanse, one that I knew all too well could be as unforgiving as it was unyielding.

"Besides, we're not done," Glenda added, her words pulling me back to the present moment. My eyebrow arched in surprise at her declaration. "We're not?" I echoed, my voice laced with a mix of curiosity and resignation.

Glenda turned her attention back to the fire, her profile illuminated by the flickering flames, casting long shadows across her face. The silence that followed was heavy, filled with the weight of unspoken thoughts and emotions. After several minutes, feeling the pull of the ritual's unfinished business, I gave in and dropped to my knees once more, resigning myself to the moment.

Glenda swallowed deeply, a visible effort to compose herself. I caught a glimpse of a tear tracing its path down her cheek, a silent testament to the depth of feeling behind her next words. "I'm grateful for Clivilius," she said, her voice a whisper against the backdrop of the night.

As Glenda disappeared into the medical tent with a haste that spoke volumes of her inner turmoil, I found myself shuffling back to my log, the dust kicking up behind me in a silent testament to the heavy thoughts weighing me down. There, I settled once more, my gaze fixed on the fire before me. Its crackles and pops were a dying chorus, singing the final notes of what felt like our dwindling hope for survival. In the orange glow of the embers, I found myself lost in a reflection, waiting for what would come next, yet unsure of what I was truly expecting.

When Kain re-entered the camp at a brisk pace, his return pulled me from my reverie. He immediately lay down, finding solace by the last warmth of the coals, seeking comfort in the fire's fading embrace. Glenda had been right. Despite the darkness that lay beyond our circle of light, Kain had found his way back to us. His chest heaved with silent breaths, a wordless expression of whatever fears or shadows he had encountered in the night. The sight stirred a deep empathy within me. The unknown terrors of the darkness were a shared dread among us, yet each experience was painfully personal.

My face softened as I observed him. Kain was still so young, barely on the cusp of adulthood, yet soon to face the responsibilities of fatherhood. The thought sent a sharp pang through me, an aching reminder of my own children, whose faces I feared I might never see again. The pain was a raw, jagged edge in my heart, a constant reminder of what was at stake, of what had already been lost.

Compelled by a sudden urge to offer some small measure of comfort, I rose from my seat. The sleeping bag at my feet, momentarily forgotten, now seemed like a small but significant offering. I picked it up and gently placed it beside Kain's resting form, a silent gesture of solidarity. In this world that demanded so much from us, it was these small acts of kindness that kept the ember of humanity alive within us.

Then, quietly, with a care not to disturb the fragile peace that had settled over the camp, I crept towards the tent.

Returning from the tent with the second sleeping bag clutched in my arms, I couldn't help but smile warmly at the sight that greeted me. Kain's belongings, a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, were strewn haphazardly across his log. He looked to be wrapped snugly within the confines of the sleeping bag, his eyes fixed on the vast, empty expanse of the night sky above us.

I undressed down to my underwear, taking care to fold my clothes neatly, a small gesture of order amidst the disorder. Placing them atop my log, I allowed myself a deep breath of relief, the cool night air caressing my skin. Slipping my legs into my own sleeping bag, I welcomed the thought of rest, a precious commodity in these times.

However, the ground beneath me was unforgiving, a small lump of dust making its presence known against my back. I rolled onto my side, attempting to smooth it out with fumbling hands, but my efforts only succeeded in creating another lump. After several frustrated pounds, I resigned myself to the discomfort, rolling back onto my back. Probably as good as it's going to get, I thought, a sigh escaping me.

The silence of the night was heavy, filled with the unsaid and the unresolved. "I'm sorry, Kain," I found myself saying, breaking the quiet. My mind, restless and refusing to settle, needed to voice the apology, to acknowledge the moment of discord from earlier.

Kain's response was a soft sigh, filled with a weariness that I felt mirrored in my own bones. "I'm grateful for the light," he said simply, his words carrying a depth of meaning that went beyond the physical. In this world of shadows and uncertainty, the light was more than just a beacon in the darkness; it was a symbol of hope, of the fragile yet persistent will to survive.

A deep line of worry etched itself across my forehead, his words resonating with me. Pulling myself from the sleeping bag, I moved quickly, driven by a newfound determination. After a quick dash to gather what was needed, I returned to place several more logs on the fire. The flames, rejuvenated by the fresh fuel, danced with renewed vigour, casting a warm glow that pushed back the encroaching darkness.

The light will remain tonight, I promised myself silently. I will make sure of that.