"Son," I whispered softly, my voice a mixture of wonder and relief as I gazed at Joel. "You're alive. You're really alive." The words felt surreal, echoing around us, affirming the impossible that had become our reality.

"I think so," Joel managed to croak out, his voice raspy and strained, barely above a whisper. The sound of his voice, though weak, was the most beautiful melody to my ears, a sign of life against all odds.

"Don't talk. Save your voice," I cautioned him gently. Reflecting on Luke's timeline, it dawned on me that Joel hadn't spoken for more than twenty-four hours. Considering the ordeal he had been through, including the lack of blood or moisture, it was inevitable that his throat would be sore and his voice raspy for a while. The priority was his recovery, his comfort.

"I'm going to try and bring you back out of the water now," I announced, preparing both him and myself for the next step. "We'll see what happens. The first sign of you slipping away again and we'll be straight back in here." The plan was clear in my mind, a delicate balance between hope and caution, ready to react at the slightest hint of distress.

Joel's response was a slow blink, leaving me to interpret his agreement or understanding. My brow furrowed in concentration. Did that mean Joel agreed? The need for clear communication pressed on me, urging me to find a simple yet effective way to ensure we understood each other.

Taking a deep breath, I ventured, "I know this sounds very cliché, but it seems to be effective in the movies. Blink once for no and twice for yes," I explained, hoping this method would bridge the gap between us, allowing Joel to express his needs without straining his voice.

"Do you understand me?" I asked, watching him closely for his response.

Joel blinked twice quickly, his action a clear affirmation that he understood my makeshift system of communication. A sigh of relief escaped me, my heart lighter, a grin spreading across my weary face at this small but significant sign. Progress, I reminded myself silently. We're making progress.

Gently, I navigated Joel's buoyant form towards the more rugged part of the lagoon's bank, aiming for an area where the rocks offered a semblance of stability. I found the largest, smoothest rock as a makeshift platform and, with care, climbed onto it. Gripping Joel under his shoulder blades, I hoisted him from the water's embrace, ensuring his head was delicately positioned upon the rock, a precarious but necessary measure for his comfort.

As I began to pull my t-shirt over my head, a moment of hesitation gripped me. The scar that marred my chest – a vivid reminded of our first night in Clivilius – was something I was instinctively protective of. Do I really want Joel to see my injury? The vulnerability of exposing my wound to my son weighed on me, a silent battle between concealment and the need to provide for him. Yet, the decision was made. I removed my t-shirt, rolling it up to create a makeshift pillow. Despite parts of it being damp, it offered a softer alternative to the unforgiving hardness of the rock.

"Are you comfortable?" I asked, the words slipping out before I could gauge their appropriateness. The question seemed almost absurd in the context of what Joel had endured. The last few days had been nothing short of a tumultuous journey between life and death. Or perhaps maybe heaven? The thought briefly crossed my mind, a fleeting consideration of the metaphysical journey Joel might have experienced. I quickly dismissed the speculation, focusing instead on the present reality. The philosophical musings on where Joel had been were secondary to ensuring his current well-being.

Joel's eyes fluttered closed, a brief movement that sent a sharp pang of panic slicing through me. The fear, irrational yet gripping, was a visceral reminder of how precarious our situation remained. But then, just as quickly, his eyes opened again, followed by a deliberate blink. The relief that washed over me was immediate, though it did little to ease the undercurrent of anxiety that had taken root.

"Shit," I muttered, a nervous chuckle escaping me as I tried to mask the depth of my concern. "You gave me a bit of a fright there." My attempt at light-heartedness felt clumsy.

The corners of Joel's mouth twitched into what could only be described as a wisp of a smile. It was a small gesture, but in that moment, it was everything – a sign of resilience, a glimmer of a man returning from death.

As we settled into a calm silence, my mind became a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions, a tumultuous sea of questions and things I desperately wanted Joel to know. There was so much to say, so much he had missed. Where should I start? The mention of Kate, Luke, and the myriad of life events that had unfolded in my absence of his life loomed large in my mind.

"I still can’t believe you are here with me," I confessed to Joel, the words heavy with emotion. The sentiment was true; despite the joy of having him back, a part of me wished fervently that the circumstances of our reunion were different.

As I began to spill the stories of my early adult years, a flood of words poured from me unbidden. But abruptly, I halted, my gaze returning to Joel. He lay there, so still, so quiet, a silent witness to my outpouring. A twinge of pain knitted my brow as I considered the fairness of my actions. It struck me then, the unfairness of unloading all my pent-up thoughts and emotions onto him, especially when he was in no position to ask for respite.

The silence enveloped us once more, a thick blanket that seemed to stretch infinitely. My gaze drifted out across the lagoon, its waters still and clear. In that vast, tranquil expanse, I found a mirror for my own turbulent thoughts, a quiet reminder of the complexity of our situation. Here, in this serene yet charged atmosphere, the weight of everything unsaid hung heavily between us.

Taking a deep breath, I braced myself for the revelation that had weighed heavily on my heart. "I didn’t know about you until a couple of months ago, you know," I confessed, turning to face Joel, who lay motionless beside me on the rugged embrace of the shore. The admission hung in the air between us, a truth that had reshaped the very foundation of my existence.

As the words settled, a small tear escaped the corner of Joel's eye, tracing a path down his cheek. The sight of it, glimmering against his beautiful blue eye, struck a chord deep within me. It was a silent, poignant reflection of the emotions that the revelation stirred - a mixture of pain, wonder, and perhaps a hint of relief at the unburdening.

I bit my lip, a physical reminder to rein in the flood of explanations and emotions threatening to spill forth. Now was not the time; Joel's fragile state couldn't bear the weight of our complicated history. "We’ll talk about it later," I stated, a promise of a future conversation, one that we both needed but were not yet ready for.

As the minutes stretched into an uneasy calm, I sensed a shift in Joel's presence beside me. It was as if the turmoil that the revelation had stirred was beginning to settle, giving way to a tentative peace. The decision of where to start unravelling our tangled story had loomed large over me, but as I watched Joel, a resolve crystallised within me. I'll start with Kate, I finally decided.

The choice felt right, a starting point that offered a bridge between past and present, a thread that could weave together the fragmented pieces of our shared story. Kate's role in our lives, her impact, would serve as the foundation for the many conversations that lay ahead. In deciding to begin with Kate, I was choosing a path of honesty and openness, a commitment to building a relationship with Joel grounded in truth, no matter how complex or painful that truth might be.

As the gentle breeze swept across the desolate landscape, carrying with it small clouds of fine dust, a stark reminder of our isolation, I became acutely aware of the harshness of our surroundings. The sun bore down on us, relentless and unforgiving, its heat unmitigated by the barren sky above. My skin felt dry, almost parched, a sensation that only heightened my concern for Joel.

Touching the back of my hand to his face, the heat radiating from him was unmistakable. He felt alarmingly hot and dry, symptoms of overexposure that couldn't be ignored. "We need to get you out of the sun," I announced with a sense of urgency, the realisation dawning on me that the harsh elements could only compound his recovery. "Too much exposure can’t be good for you. I'll get some water to dampen your skin. It’ll help your healing." The words were as much for me as they were for him, a plan of action in a situation where feeling helpless was all too easy.

Perched precariously on the edge of the large rock that had become Joel's makeshift recuperation bed, I leaned over to scoop water from the lagoon. My hands, cupped together, seemed woefully inadequate for the task, but it was all I had. By the time I brought them back to Joel, most of the water had slipped through the gaps between my fingers, leaving only a few precious drops to offer. I watched the droplets fall onto his forehead, each one a small mercy in the oppressive heat.

Then, with what moisture remained on my hands, I gently rubbed across Joel's face, trying to provide some semblance of relief. The action, though simple, felt deeply personal, a small act of care in the face of adversity. It was a reminder of our precarious situation, of the delicate balance between life and the harsh elements surrounding us.

After my second futile attempt to carry water in my hands, the dry reality of our situation became painfully clear. My efforts, though well-intentioned, were proving to be ineffectual against the relentless sun. I scanned our immediate surroundings, desperation creeping into my thoughts. There has to be something I can use to scoop the water, I thought anxiously. Yet, all that met my gaze were the unforgiving rocks and the pervasive dust, silent witnesses to our plight.

The idea that came to me next was one born out of necessity rather than preference. I shouldn't, should I? The internal debate was brief, my situation leaving little room for the luxury of choice. With a resigned shrug, answering my own silent query, I slipped off one of my shoes and dipped it into the water. It was an unconventional solution, to say the least, but desperation had stripped away the veneer of convention.

"I know it's not exactly the nicest way. But it's all we've got," I explained to Joel, hoping for his understanding, if not his forgiveness, for the unorthodox method. With that, I tipped a shoeful of water over Joel's chest, the liquid spreading across his skin, a makeshift baptism in our desert sanctuary.

I hurried back to the face the lagoon for another load, the urgency of the situation lending speed to my actions. Joel's soft grunts reached my ears, a sound that sent my heart racing with a mixture of hope and anxiety. I must hurry, I urged myself. Joel is drying out. The realisation that time was of the essence, that each moment and each action could tip the scales, propelled my actions.

As I turned around, ready to douse Joel's parched body with another shoe of water, my breath caught in my throat. The sight that greeted me was nothing short of miraculous. Joel hadn't been grunting from the discomfort of dryness; he had managed to sit himself up! The resilience and strength he displayed in that simple act filled me with a mix of awe and relief.

"Home," Joel uttered in a soft, raspy voice, the word hanging between us, laden with longing and vulnerability. My heart twisted at his words, the simplicity of his request clashing with the complexity of our reality.

I felt a surge of anger rise within me, a tempest of frustration directed at the circumstances that had brought us to this point, and at Luke, for reasons that seemed both justified and yet futile to dwell on in the moment. For the sake of my son, I had to quell that storm, to maintain the calm and assurance he needed from me. There would be time later to confront Luke, to unleash the turmoil that churned inside me. But how could I tell my son that his concept of home, as he knew it, was no longer within reach? This desolate, alien place was our reality now.

"Okay," I responded, my voice steady despite the tumult inside. I couldn't offer him a return to Earth, to the home he remembered, but I could provide him with the next best thing: safety and care at our camp. It was a promise, a commitment to his well-being, no matter the circumstances.

Taking a moment to assess Joel's physical condition, I noted that he didn't look much taller than myself, his frame slight. The realisation that I could physically carry him, that I could offer him the support he needed in this moment, fortified my resolve.

"Let's get you back to camp," I declared, determination firming my words. "I'll carry you." It was a declaration of my dedication to him, of my role as his protector, his guide in this uncertain new world.

"Okay," Joel replied softly, his acquiescence a demonstration to his trust in me.

Crouching down, the coarse, dry earth pressed hard against my knees. I scooped my arms beneath Joel, feeling the unexpected weight of his body as a soft grunt escaped my lips. It wasn't just his physical weight; it was the weight of responsibility, of fear, of love. Joel, seemingly understanding the strain of the moment, wrapped an arm around my neck, pulling himself closer, seeking comfort in the warmth of my chest. His trust was a heavy mantle, but one I bore willingly.

The ground beneath us was thick with dust, a fine, grittiness that clung to my feet and legs, hampering every breath. Each step became a battle, a fight against the invisible hands of the desert trying to pull us back, to bury us in its desolate embrace. The top of the first hill loomed ahead, a minor victory in our arduous journey. Setting Joel down felt like relinquishing a part of myself, a temporary severing of our shared resolve.

The smoke from the campfire was a beacon in the bright afternoon sky, curling upwards in a lazy dance, taunting us with its promise of safety. The barren landscape stretched endlessly around us, a vast emptiness that made the camp seem like a mirage, an oasis too far to reach. "See that smoke?" I asked Joel, pointing towards our distant haven. "That's where we're going. That’s home." The word 'home' felt strange on my tongue, a concept too fragile for this harsh wilderness.

I looked down at Joel, his face a mirror of my own determination, tinged with the innocence of youth. Then, back at the sky, where the sun's journey painted the horizon in shades of orange and pink. A frown carved deep lines of worry across my forehead, each line a reflection of the fears that haunted me. Dusk would soon be approaching.

The memory of our first night, the cold, the sounds, the fear, snapped at my heels like a persistent wolf. The terror was a tangible thing, a monster that lurked in the darkness, waiting for the sun to flee. I could not, would not, let that darkness engulf us again. With a renewed sense of urgency, I lifted Joel back into my arms. "We need to keep moving," I whispered, more to myself than to him. The weight of my son felt lighter now, buoyed by the determination that surged through my veins. I have to get Joel back to camp before nightfall, I vowed silently. For him, for me, for the promise of another dawn after the darkness.

I crouched low, the muscles in my thighs tensing as I prepared to scoop Joel up into my arms once more. But this time, Joel's voice, croaky and weak yet laced with a determination that took me by surprise, cut through the silence.

"Stand," he said.

My eyes widened in disbelief. "You want to stand?" I echoed, needing clarification, hoping I hadn't misheard him. It was a simple request, yet it carried the weight of a thousand hopes.

"Yeah," Joel replied, his voice a whisper of resolve.

A wave of caution washed over me. "Actually, I'm not sure you're ready yet," I admitted, my gaze shifting back to the distant camp. The landscape between us and safety was marred with several more hills, each a daunting barrier in its own right. Doubt gnawed at me, gnarled fingers of worry tugging at my mind. The thought of not being able to carry Joel all the way, should he need it, sent a shiver down my spine.

But there was something in Joel's eyes, a flicker of something unbroken, that made me reconsider. "Okay," I relented, my voice a mixture of apprehension and hope. Carefully, I placed my arm behind him, offering the support I feared he might need too soon.

As Joel wobbled to his feet, his body swaying like a sapling in the wind, my heart hung suspended between hope and fear. He stepped forward, an awkward, clunky motion that was nevertheless a step. It was a moment of pure, unadulterated triumph. A glimmer of hope ignited in my heart, a beacon in the twilight of our ordeal – a testament to the fact that my son, despite everything, was very much alive.

With each step, supported yet increasingly confident, Joel's strength seemed to grow, as if drawing from the earth itself. It was a slow, painstaking process, each movement a victory over the circumstances that sought to keep us down. I could feel the shift in the air, the subtle strengthening of his resolve. It was palpable, this growth, not just in physical strength but in spirit too.

As we embarked on the descent down the small, yet deceptively steep hill, a sense of caution hung heavily in the air. The ground beneath us was a treacherous carpet of soft dust, unforgiving and eager to betray. It was then, in a heartbeat, that the earth seemed to conspire against us. Joel's foot, so cautiously placed, found no purchase. Instead, it gave way, initiating a chain reaction that neither of us were prepared for. My reflexes kicked in, my hand shooting out to grasp Joel’s arm as his body began to slip, an ephemeral cloud of dust marking the spot where stability failed him.

The weight of Joel's body, suddenly a force unbound by gravity's whim, pulled at me with a desperation I couldn't ignore. My face contorted in terror, a silent scream etched into my features as I felt the ground betray me too. We were no longer masters of our descent but captives of the hill's whim.

Like tumbleweeds subjected to the desert's indifferent gusts, we found ourselves tumbling uncontrollably down the hill. The world around us became a blur of dust and sky, an indistinct canvas of chaos. Clouds of dust rose like spectres in our wake, witnesses to our involuntary surrender to gravity's embrace.

The sudden stop at the bottom left me gasping, the breath knocked out of me, a sharp pang in my chest competing with the throbbing ache in my ankle. For a moment, I was caught in a whirlwind of panic, unsure which pain demanded my attention first.

"Joel!" My voice tore through the silence, laced with fear and concern. "Are you okay?" The urgency in my call was a mirror to my racing heart, each beat a question mark hanging in the air.

Dragging myself through the dust, a landscape now painted with the evidence of our fall, I reached Joel's side. His whispered apology, "Sorry," was a fragile sound in the vastness of our surroundings.

"It's not your fault," I assured him, my voice a blend of warmth and an attempt at reassurance. "This place isn't exactly friendly." The words tumbled out, a truth I couldn't mask. But as quickly as they came, I bit my tongue, a physical stopper to my thoughts. I had ventured too close to the edge of despair, a line I had promised myself I wouldn't cross. Positivity, in this unforgiving environment, was a choice I had made, a debt I owed to my son. The weight of that promise, much like the dust we were covered in, clung to me, a constant reminder of the strength required to forge ahead.

As I cast my gaze over Joel, assessing him for any additional signs of harm, he appeared remarkably intact. Given the tumble we'd just endured, this was no small feat. Yet, considering the fragility of his condition prior to our fall, my relief was tinged with uncertainty. The truth was, in the dust and adrenaline of the moment, discerning any subtle changes in his well-being was a challenge I wasn't confident I could meet.

"Can you stand?" The question left my lips, buoyed by hope yet weighted with concern.

"I think so," Joel replied in his raspy voice.

As I aided Joel to his feet, my own body protested. My foot, an unwitting casualty of our descent, throbbed mercilessly. Each pulse of pain shot up my calf like lightning, a cruel reminder of our vulnerability. I clenched my jaw, swallowing the pain, determined to keep my discomfort hidden. At that moment, there was something far greater at stake than my own suffering.

The urge to vocalise my agony was overwhelming, a primal scream hovering at the edge of my consciousness. Yet, it remained unvoiced. The well-being of my son, standing bravely beside me, eclipsed every personal affliction. He was my priority, the one concern that overshadowed every sharp stab of pain.

Leaning on each other, Joel and I resumed our trek. Our pace was painstakingly slow, each step a laborious effort. The solidarity between us was palpable, a mutual dependency born of necessity. Yet, as we made our way, a heavy sigh escaped me. The journey ahead loomed large, a daunting expanse that stretched out before us. The realisation of how much distance we still had to cover settled in, a heavy cloak of reality draped over my shoulders.

As Paul's voice cut through the dimming light of the afternoon, a surprising wave of relief washed over me. "Jamie!" he called out, his concern unmistakable even from a distance. "Is that Joel?" The urgency in his voice bridged the gap between us, pulling him closer with every word.

With my free arm, I gestured frantically, the movement a beacon in the waning daylight. "Come and help us," I managed to say, my voice a mix of desperation and gratitude. It was a strange feeling, this relief at seeing Luke's brother.

Paul moved with a purpose, his steps careful yet swift as he navigated the dusty terrain that had been our adversary just moments before. Sliding under Joel's free arm, he took on the weight of my son with a steadiness that belied the uncertainty of our situation. "Thought I'd better get him back to camp before dark," I said, the words more a plea than a statement, urging us into motion.

"Good idea," Paul responded, his voice a solid, grounding force.

Even with Paul's added strength, the journey back to camp proved arduous. Every step was a battle, not just against the physical terrain, but against the accumulated weariness of the past days. It wasn't just the physical toll; a relentless headache hammered at my temples, a cruel symphony to the mental and emotional duress we'd been subjected to.

"Hurt your foot?" Paul's inquiry broke through my grimace of pain as I navigated another step.

"Yeah," I grunted in acknowledgment, the simplicity of my response masking the complexity of our ordeal. "The hill where you found us was a bit tough," I added.

Paul's attention shifted to Joel. "Has he spoken yet?" His question was gentle.

"Not really," I admitted, my eyes flickering to my son. Despite the silence, Joel's presence, his continued fight, was a testament to progress, however silent it might be.

Paul then turned his gaze to Joel, offering a semblance of comfort in the midst of our desolation. "You've got your father's eyes," he said, a statement meant to bridge the gap between the past and our present struggles. "Let's get you home."

At his words, a quiet scoff escaped me, a sound muffled by the dust and despair that seemed to cling to us. Despite Paul's intentions, the concept of 'home' felt alien, a distant memory that no longer held any truth in our current existence. No matter how much I wished to believe otherwise, the stark reality remained—this place, this situation, could never be 'home.' It was a harsh truth, a reminder of everything I had lost and everything that a part of me was still wanted to fight to regain.

As the minutes stretched into what felt like an eternity, each step we took was a testament to resilience in the face of unrelenting pain and exhaustion. The endless tapestry of reds and oranges beneath our feet seemed to mock our slow progress, but the sight of the camp finally breaking through the horizon offered a glimmer of hope. "We're nearly there," I silently urged my trembling, aching legs, commanding them to carry me just a bit further.

"Glenda!" Paul called out.

The moment Paul's voice broke the silence, calling out for Glenda with a sense of urgency, my heart skipped a beat. Luke's here, I realised, the surprise lifting the fog of exhaustion momentarily. As Glenda and Luke hurried over, the sight of familiar faces in this desolate place felt like a rare blessing.

"He's bleeding!" Glenda's cry jolted me from my daze, her alarm slicing through the haze of fatigue that clouded my senses. Luke's reaction, a stunned silence as he stared at Joel, mirrored my own shock. Before Luke could snap out of it, Kain sprung into action, his responsiveness a stark contrast to our collective paralysis. "I got it!" he declared, rushing over with tissues in hand, a small but critical act of kindness in our moment of need.

"Ta," Glenda acknowledged with a simple word as she took the tissues from Kain, pressing them against Joel's nose in an attempt to stem the flow of blood. Her directive to get Joel seated was met with immediate compliance, Paul and I guiding my son to a large log by the campfire. The log, rough and unyielding, was a far cry from proper seating, but it was the best we could offer in a place that had long forgotten comfort.

"Not too close," Glenda warned as we settled Joel near the fire, her concern for his wellbeing evident in her voice. "Is it just his nose?" she inquired, her gaze sharp and assessing.

"I think so," I answered, the guilt gnawing at my insides. The realisation that I hadn't noticed Joel's bleeding sooner was a blow to my already fragile sense of competence as a father. Had the blood been a silent witness to our harrowing descent down the hill? The question haunted me, casting a shadow over the small relief of having reached the camp. What a lousy father I'm turning out to be already, I chastised myself internally, the weight of my perceived failures adding to the burden of our physical and emotional ordeal.

Glenda's actions, as she knelt before Joel, struck me as a blend of concern and perplexity. Joel, drooping yet supported by Paul and me, seemed almost too fragile in that moment. "I don't understand how he can be bleeding. I'm certain there was no blood in him earlier," Glenda mused aloud, her brows knitted in confusion.

I found myself shaking my head, an involuntary reaction to the surreal situation unfolding before us. "I didn't give him any. But he seems to have plenty of it now," I responded, my voice laced with a mix of amazement and disbelief as I glanced at the bloodied tissues in my hand. The sight was both reassuring and unnerving; blood meant life, but the sudden appearance was a puzzle.

Glenda's agreement only deepened the mystery. Her examination of Joel, the gentle prodding along his arms and legs, was methodical, almost ritualistic. "There is definitely blood in his veins now. It’s a medical anomaly!" she declared with a kind of clinical fascination that seemed out of place in the dusty camp.

Then, with a fluid motion that broke the gravity of our discussion, Glenda stood and accepted the whiskey bottle from Luke. "You better lie him down again once the bleeding stops," she advised before taking a swig from the bottle. I stared, dumbfounded. The incongruity of her actions, the casual sip of whiskey while my son sat bleeding, ignited a flare of indignation within me. My initial reservations about Glenda, briefly assuaged by her medical intervention, surged back with renewed vigour. Duke's instinctual wariness of her echoed in my mind, a reminder that perhaps the dog's judgment was more reliable than I had wanted to admit.

As Paul shifted his gaze to the sky, "Nightfall can't be far away now," he observed, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife. “I’ll prepare some dinner for us.”

 Kain's eagerness to assist, a quick, "I'll help you," suggested an undercurrent of discomfort, perhaps a need to find his place among us or to make amends, or Perhaps Kain's still feeling a little self-conscious, I mused with a silent chuckle.

As the campfire flickered, casting elongated shadows that danced across the dust-laden ground, Joel and I lingered in its warmth. The meal I consumed was small, barely enough to sate the hunger that gnawed at me, but it was the fresh air that seemed to breathe a bit of life back into both of us. The sky, once painted with the last strokes of twilight, had deepened into an inky blackness that threatened to pull me into sleep. Fighting the weight of fatigue that pressed down on my eyelids, I ushered Joel towards the tent, our steps slow and measured. The need for rest was undeniable, a silent plea from our bodies for a reprieve from the day's trials.

"You take the mattress," I instructed Joel, my voice soft in the enveloping darkness of the tent. Squinting to make out his form in the scant light, I guided him down, ensuring his comfort was paramount.

"Clothes," Joel's whisper cut through the silence, a simple request yet laden with vulnerability.

"Oh," I responded, the realisation sparking a sudden alertness within me. "Do you want help taking them off?" My offer was tentative, born of concern yet mindful of his dignity.

"Yes," Joel's voice was a croak, laden with exhaustion.

"Okay."

As I helped Joel, a feeling of awkwardness enveloped me, a sensation foreign and yet intimate. I had never found myself in such a caretaker role, especially under circumstances as unique as these. Joel, a son suddenly thrust into my life, represented a new chapter, one that required a level of care and attention I had never anticipated providing. The situation was uncharted territory for me, a mix of duty and tenderness that I navigated with cautious reverence.

Reflecting on the moment, a surprising revelation washed over me. Despite the initial awkwardness, there was an underlying sense of fulfilment, a connection forming in the act of caring for Joel that I had not expected to find. It made me question my long-held stance against having children, a stance I had defended vehemently against Luke. The reasons for my resistance seemed to blur, overshadowed by the tangible bond forming between Joel and me. In the quiet of the tent, I found myself reconsidering the possibilities that lay in the paths not taken, the choices made in the certainty of adulthood now questioned under the beckoning sky of fatherhood.

The weight of my newfound responsibilities as a father momentarily lifted as I addressed the practical matter at hand. "You should be able to fit into some of my clothes," I suggested, trying to navigate the unfamiliar territory of caring for Joel with something resembling normalcy. Yet, his refusal, a simple “No. No clothes,” to my offer brought me back to the reality of our situation. It wasn't just about clothes; it was about respecting his current state, his needs, and preferences in a moment when normalcy seemed like a distant memory.

"Okay." Accepting his decision without protest, I pulled the blanket up to Joel’s shoulders, ensuring he was comfortable and warm. His quiet "Thanks" was a small reassurance.

Watching Joel's bright blue eyes close, a sign of trust in my care, filled me with a profound sense of responsibility. It was a reminder that, despite the challenges we faced, there were moments of peace, however fleeting. Satisfied that he was settled for the night, I moved across the tent's floor to the opposite wing. This space, however minimal, was a gesture of respect for his privacy and independence, a balance I was determined to learn to navigate.

Spreading one of the new sleeping bags beneath me, I lay down, not seeking the solace of sleep but rather a moment to reflect. The distance from the campfire and its communal warmth was intentional. I needed this solitude, a quiet space to process the day's events and the enormity of the journey ahead. The crackling of the fire and the muted conversations of the others felt like they belonged to another world, one where the simplicity of gathering around a fire didn't come with the weight of survival and newfound parenthood pressing down on my shoulders.