Hovering near the Drop Zone, my heart raced with a potent mix of excitement and anxiety. The air was thick with tension, almost palpable, as if the entire atmosphere of Clivilius vibrated with the energy of our impending mission. Clutching the charged laptop, I felt its cool, metallic surface against my palms, a stark contrast to the warmth of my sweaty hands. This wasn't just any laptop; it was our lifeline, a piece of Earth technology ingeniously adapted to work in the unpredictable environments of Clivilius. Its screensaver flickered—a digital image of Earth, a poignant reminder of what I was fighting to maintain: a connection to our home world.

I could feel every circuit, every byte of data flowing through this machine as if it were an extension of my own nervous system. I prepared for the moment Luke would be ready to use it to establish contact with our parents. The anticipation was maddening, knowing that any second now, we would bridge two worlds with a few clicks and keystrokes.

"Shit," I muttered under my breath as I saw my parents step through the Portal. The air whooshed, and a ripple of energy cascaded through the Drop Zone, distorting the light and sending a shiver down my spine. Luke and I had talked about bringing them here, debated the ethics and logistics, weighed the risks against the unbearable weight of separation. But I hadn’t expected it to happen so suddenly, so unannounced. It felt like a breach in our carefully laid plans, a variable I hadn't fully prepared for.

Their figures materialised, solidifying from the shimmering haze of the Portal's threshold. My heart skipped a beat. They looked the same, yet subtly altered by the journey, carrying the aura of Earth with them, a scent of familiarity in this foreign world.

Despite the unexpected timing and the dilemma that Luke had undoubtedly created, a surge of conflicting emotions washed over me. There was resentment, yes, for the uncalculated risk, for the shock of their sudden appearance. But beneath that, a deeper, more powerful undercurrent of relief and longing. I couldn’t avoid this reunion—not when it involved family, not when every fibre of my being yearned for that connection, for the comfort of the familiar in a universe that was anything but.

As they stepped forward, the reality of their presence hit me. They were here, on Clivilius, a world light-years away from everything they knew. The responsibility weighed heavily on me, the knowledge that their safety, their well-being, was now interwoven with the decisions I would make.

"Dad! Mum!" I called out, a mix of relief and caution lacing my tone. My feet pounded against the dusty ground as I jogged towards them, each step resonating with a mix of eager anticipation and a tinge of apprehension.

Their appearance, clad in pyjamas amidst the alien backdrop of Clivilius, injected a surreal touch to the scene. It was a jarring juxtaposition—the mundane familiarity of their nightwear against the otherworldly landscape that now surrounded them. It was as if a slice of Earthly life had been transplanted here, an intimate piece of home in a place that defied the ordinary.

Jerome, my second youngest brother, now aged nineteen, emerged through the Portal, his presence adding another layer of home to this strange reunion. He joined me, his face alight with a mixture of excitement and disbelief, as we welcomed our parents. My smile widened, warmth spreading through me at the sight of him, a familiar ally in this unpredictable world.

Despite the challenges their arrival would bring to our isolated settlement—additional mouths to feed, more lives to protect—the joy of having more family members here was overwhelming. Especially my Dad, whose presence always seemed to anchor me, no matter how far the distance between us.

As they took in their new surroundings with visible awe and confusion, their eyes wide, scanning the alien horizon, both my parents enveloped me in tight hugs. The feel of their embrace, the smell of home that clung to their pyjamas, was grounding. I noticed Dad quickly readjusting his dressing gown after our embrace, a small but familiar action that brought a poignant sense of normality.

"Claire's been looking for you," Mum said, her voice carrying that characteristic contempt that had always been her signature. Her words, so mundane yet so laden with unspoken narratives, elicited a mix of surprise and internal amusement from me. Claire and Mum's contentious relationship was the stuff of family legend, and leave it to Mum to prioritise that bit of gossip, even while standing on an alien planet.

The irony of the moment wasn't just amusing; it was profoundly grounding. Amidst the otherworldly scenery of Clivilius, with its skies that weren't quite the right shade of blue and the foreign, whispering winds, Mum's focus on domestic trivialities was an anchor to our past life on Earth.

Her words stood in stark contrast to the setting, as did her pyjamas, adorned with happy Jesus faces. The absurdity of the image—my mother, in her religious nightwear, discussing family squabbles while surrounded by the alien landscape—was almost comical. It underscored the surrealism that life had become, juxtaposing the profound and the profane, the cosmic and the commonplace.

As my parents and Jerome absorbed the new environment, the initial shock on Mum's face faded, morphing back into her customary grumpiness. This shift was oddly comforting. Despite the change in our physical world, the core dynamics of our family remained unchanged. Mum's grumpiness, a trait as reliable as the sun's rise back on Earth, reassured me that some things remained constant, even here.

Thankfully, Luke soon joined us, his presence slicing through the growing tension like a knife. His approach was purposeful, his eyes scanning the group until they landed on the empty space where one more should have been. "Where's Charles?" he asked, his tone carrying an edge of urgency that was unmistakably direct.

"Seminary!" The synchronised chorus from the three Smiths, a comedic triplet, resonated in the air, their voices melding in a reminder of the family dynamics that had withstood the test of time and space. It was a snapshot of our unity, a testament to our shared history, unaltered by the cosmic leap from Earth to Clivilius.

I couldn't help but chuckle softly at their unified response, a bubble of warmth expanding in my chest. It was these moments, these small, familiar rituals, that stitched our family fabric together.

Mum's scowl deepened, the lines on her face etching a map of disapproval as she pivoted to face Luke. "Luke!" she screeched, her voice hitting a pitch that was both familiar and jarring. “What have you done!?” Her tone was accusatory, laden with a mother's instinctive concern and the sharp edge of fear for her children's well-being.

Luke's response was quintessentially him—nonchalant, almost frustratingly calm. A casual shrug accompanied his words, "I did what was necessary," as if that settled everything, as if the necessity of his actions absolved any need for explanation or justification.

I couldn’t resist injecting my own touch of sarcasm, a coping mechanism as much as a nudge to Luke's conscience. "You didn't think it was necessary to let them change out of their pyjamas first?" The absurdity of their attire, while initially a source of amusement, now took on a tinge of concern. Clivilius was unforgiving, its environment harsh and unpredictable—hardly the place for the daytime wearing of nightwear.

Luke’s answer was a brush-off, his words dismissive as if the practicalities of our parents' attire were trivial compared to the grander scheme of his plans. "It didn't really cross my mind, to be honest.”

His indifference stung, a reminder of the chasm between his perspectives and ours. Here we were, a family uprooted and thrust into the unknown, clinging to each other and our shared past, while Luke stood apart, his mind orbiting around a different centre of gravity, one that seemed to disregard the smaller, yet profound, realities of family life in a strange new world.

Dad, with a look of bewilderment that seemed to age him in the moment, turned to us, his voice carrying a mix of curiosity and confusion. "And where's the New Jerusalem?" His eyes, wide and searching, swept over the barren, otherworldly landscape that stretched around us, as if he expected to find a beacon of civilisation in this desolate expanse.

I couldn't help but shoot Luke a 'what the fuck' glare, my eyebrows knitting together in a silent demand for an explanation. Dad's question, so loaded and unexpected, threw me off balance. It was clear that there had been conversations, plans, perhaps even promises made back on Earth that I was not privy to.

Luke didn't even flinch at my silent outburst. "It's just over the hill," he said, his voice steady, as if he were discussing something as mundane as the weather, not the fantastical concept of a New Jerusalem in a new world. His words hung in the air, filled with implications I couldn’t begin to unpack.

Feeling a mix of exasperation and confusion, my hands found their way to my head, fingers threading through my hair in a gesture of sheer bewilderment. The surreal nature of this conversation, the casual way Luke spoke of monumental things, was like a scene from a dream—unreal, disorienting.

I was clueless, utterly in the dark about the discussions that had transpired back on Earth. The specifics of how Luke had woven this narrative, convincing Dad of a New Jerusalem awaiting us over the horizon, seemed almost irrelevant now.

"Paul will take you there," Luke announced abruptly, turning his gaze towards me, as if I had been briefed on this plan, as if I was an actor aware of his role in this unfolding drama.

"What!?" My voice erupted before I could catch it, a visceral reaction to the unexpected responsibility thrust upon me. The last thing I desired was to navigate the delicate task of aligning Dad's utopian expectations with the stark, unyielding reality of Clivilius. The weight of potential disappointment felt like a tangible burden, pressing down on my shoulders.

Luke's expression mirrored my frustration, his brow furrowing in a familiar dance of sibling discord. "I don't know why you're getting so worked up," he retorted, his voice sharp, a pointed reminder of our past discussions. "I told you I would bring them here," he added, as if the mere act of fulfilling that promise absolved him of the nuances and consequences of this reunion.

"Yeah, but I thought—" I began, my protest laced with disbelief, my hand unconsciously lifting the laptop I had brought along, its presence meant to facilitate communication, not to serve as a prop in this unexpected turn of events.

"Oh, plans changed," Luke cut me off, his words laced with a sarcasm that felt like a slap. "Dad wanted to go to the New Jerusalem instead," he continued, his statement simplifying the complex web of hopes and expectations into a stark, unfeeling fact.

I was left grappling with the abrupt shift in my role, from a mere participant to the guide on this quixotic quest for a New Jerusalem. The task ahead loomed large, a journey not just across the physical terrain of Clivilius but through the emotional landscape of hope, belief, and the inevitable confrontation with reality.

Jerome's voice, tinged with bewilderment, sliced through the tension between Luke and me, redirecting our attention to a peculiar scene unfolding at the edge of the Drop Zone. "What is she doing?" he inquired, his gaze fixed on the sight of Karen pushing a shopping trolley through the thick, dust that carpeted the terrain.

At first, I was puzzled by the need for such an obvious question, but then it hit me that the sight of a middle-aged woman pushing a shopping trolley full of plants through a desert wasteland was far from ordinary.

Luke's voice, infused with a characteristic blend of enthusiasm and obliviousness, broke my contemplative silence. "Hey, Karen!" he bellowed, his voice carrying over the sandy expanse.

Karen halted, her posture stiffening as she turned to face us. Even from a distance, her body language radiated frustration, a visible aura of exasperation emanating from her figure. "I'm busy, Luke," she retorted, her voice cutting through the air, laden with a palpable weariness.

"It'll only take a few minutes!" Luke's reply, brimming with an almost naïve optimism, seemed to float across the distance.

With a palpable sense of resignation, Karen abandoned her peculiar task and began her reluctant trek towards us. Each step seemed to carry the weight of her frustration, her figure a lone, determined entity against the vast backdrop of the Drop Zone. Watching her approach, I felt a surge of empathy for Karen, her actions a testament to the human capacity to persist, to carry on with the mundane and the necessary, even when the world around us has shifted beyond recognition.

"Karen, meet my parents, Noah and Greta. And this is my younger brother, Jerome," Luke said, his hand sweeping through the air with a dramatic flair that felt oddly theatrical.

Mum, who had always possessed an innate ability to both cool down and warm up any atmosphere in equal measure, surprised us all by stepping forward and wrapping Karen in an embrace. "Lovely to meet you, Karen," she declared, her voice infused with a genuine warmth that seemed to soften the edges of her arrival.

Karen's reply was cordial, "Likewise," yet her body tensed, her stance awkward as she navigated the unexpected physical contact. Her eyes darted towards Luke, a silent yet eloquent expression of her irritation flashing briefly. I fought back a smirk, well aware of Karen's usual reticence for such effusive greetings, her comfort zone clearly more aligned with the flora she tended than with human touch. Unless it involved entomological specimens, I noted to myself with an inward chuckle.

Dad, on the other hand, seemed momentarily preoccupied with his own predicament, his fingers adjusting his dressing gown with a self-consciousness that was palpable. His attire, so starkly out of place in this setting, hung on him like a banner of their collective displacement.

Observing Dad's unease, Luke quickly interjected, "I suppose I'd better get you some clothes to change into," his voice carrying a hint of familial teasing that didn't quite mask his underlying concern.

Jerome, his gaze drifting to the shimmering façade of the Portal, voiced the lingering question that seemed to hover in the air, charged with a mix of hope and resignation. "Can't we just go home?"

Karen, extricating herself from Mum's embrace with a polite but firm grace, seized the moment to retreat from the emotional complexity of the reunion. "Well," she said, her tone signalling a return to pragmatism, "I guess that's my cue to keep moving. These garden supplies won't move themselves." Her gesture towards the cluster of trolleys laden with greenery near the Drop Zone underscored the surreal juxtaposition of our family concerns against the backdrop of her task.

As Karen's figure receded into the distance, Jerome's poignant question hung heavily in the atmosphere, a stark reminder of the dissonance between desires and reality. "It's not quite that simple," I found myself saying, my voice tinged with a gentleness born of shared uncertainty. My arm found its way around Jerome's shoulders, an instinctive gesture meant to offer solace amidst the swirling questions and doubts.

"How about I explain it on our way to camp?" I proposed, aiming to infuse a hint of normality into their extraordinary situation. The idea was to weave a thread of routine into the fabric of their new existence, to offer a semblance of structure in a world where everything they knew had been turned on its head.

"Great idea, Paul," Luke chimed in, his voice carrying a note of agreement as he gestured for our parents to follow. His readiness to move forward, to lead, was a trait I both admired and found frustrating in moments like these.

I paused, a thought striking me, prompting me to turn back to Luke. "Oh, and Luke," I added, a hint of admonishment in my tone, "bring their clothes to camp, would you? Don't leave them at the Drop Zone this time." It was a nudge to remind him of the practicalities, the small but significant details that mattered more than ever in this unfamiliar world.

Luke's nod was swift. "Of course." His words were brief, but I sensed a flicker of understanding in his eyes. With a final, almost wistful glance at the Portal, he engaged its mechanisms, stepping into the mesmerising dance of colours that marked the threshold between worlds, disappearing from our sight.

"Let's go," I urged my family, my voice soft but firm, guiding them away from the Portal. Lingering there, in the shadow of their last connection to Earth, would only serve to deepen the ache of loss, to magnify the yearning for a past that was now beyond their reach. It was time to face forward, to embrace the reality of their new world, and to begin the process of finding their place within it, however daunting that might seem.

Mum's complaints began to weave through the air almost as soon as we crested the first hill, her voice a familiar soundtrack to the discomfort that Clivilius offered up so generously. The heat, unrelenting and impartial, seemed to press against us, while the dust—a constant companion—whirled around, finding its way into every nook and cranny, both physical and metaphorical.

Jerome, ever attuned to Mum's moods, soon added his own voice to the chorus of discontent. Their combined grievances felt like a tangible burden, adding to the gravity of our trek and the responsibility I felt to shepherd my family through their ordeal.

“This is how it is everywhere,” I found myself saying, a note of weariness seeping into my voice. My patience, usually steadfast, was wearing thin under the relentless barrage of complaints. I understood their discomfort, truly I did, but the constant vocalisation of every hardship began to fray the edges of my composure.

The settlement of Bixbus eventually came into view as we crested the final hill, presenting itself as a beacon of civilisation amidst the vast, untamed desert of Clivilius. To me, it represented a dual reality: a haven offering a semblance of safety, yet also a cage of sorts, circumscribing our existence within its protective yet confining boundaries.

Mum's inquiry about the large fence encircling Bixbus pierced my thoughts, her tone a mix of curiosity and an underlying thread of anxiety. “Why the large fence?” she asked, her eyes scanning the formidable barrier that stood between us and the small settlement.

“For protection,” I replied, the word tasting somewhat bitter in my mouth. I chose brevity over detail, unwilling to unpack the full spectrum of threats that lurked beyond the fence's imposing structure. To delve into the specifics of what we were shielding ourselves from would only add to the weight of our already burdened arrival, and there was a part of me that wished to preserve a sliver of ignorance, however fleeting, for my family's sake.

Jerome, his curiosity piqued by a grim decoration at the camp's entrance, gestured toward the stark remains of a Shadow Panther, its skull mounted almost as a macabre welcome sign. “What is that?” he inquired, his tone a cocktail of intrigue and revulsion, reflecting the unsettling nature of the sight.

Mum's reaction was as immediate as it was intense. “Noah, that’s so disturbing, I can’t look,” she declared, her voice a blend of shock and repulsion. She sought refuge in Dad's embrace, her face hidden against him, her words a muffled echo of her distress. “Is it really necessary?” she questioned, her voice imbued with a palpable sense of unease and fear.

Internally, I groaned, a wave of frustration washing over me. Luke's decision to bring them here, to expose them to the raw and unfiltered reality of Clivilius, seemed more questionable by the moment. The visual confrontation with danger, embodied by the predator's skull, felt like an abrupt initiation into our daily reality—a reality I wasn't sure they were prepared for.

“We were attacked a few nights ago," I found myself saying, the words leaving my mouth before I could gauge their impact. "It is a reminder that we need to remain vigilant to the dangers that surround us,” I continued, trying to infuse a sense of pragmatism into the conversation. But the moment the words were out, I regretted their bluntness.

I could almost feel the shift in the air as their anxiety spiked, the concept of danger morphing from an abstract notion to a tangible threat. The skull, a stark emblem of the perilous balance between life and death on Clivilius, had intended to serve as a caution, yet I wondered if its silent message was too stark, too raw for my family, freshly uprooted from the safety of their known world. The challenge now was not just about adapting to a new environment but also about reconciling with the ever-present shadow of danger that loomed over our existence here.

As the murmurs of discontent from my parents intensified, a sense of urgency propelled me forward, guiding them swiftly towards the camp in hopes of shifting their focus to a more positive aspect of our new life. The gate of Bixbus clanged behind us, a stark reminder that we were transitioning from the wild unknown into a semblance of civilisation, albeit a vastly different one from what they were accustomed to.

Nial, Adrian, and Kain were in the midst of preparations, their bodies in motion, embodying the relentless push for progress that defined our existence here. "We’re off to get this shed finished," Adrian declared, his voice carrying the weight of commitment to the task at hand. His statement, simple yet laden with the promise of advancement, momentarily drew my attention away from my family's predicament.

"Hopefully get the second one finished, too," Kain chimed in, his tone imbued with a resolve that seemed undiminished by his reliance on crutches. His determination, visible in his stance and expression, was a testament to the resilience demanded in this unforgiving environment.

"That sounds great," I managed to reply, though the words felt insubstantial, almost lost amidst the internal cacophony of my concerns for my family. Their presence here, so starkly out of sync with their usual environment, was underscored by the curious glances from Adrian, Nial, and Kain. Their looks, a blend of intrigue and mild amusement, made me acutely aware of how out of place my parents, especially in their current attire, must appear to the other settlers.

I kept the introductions succinct, driven by a desire to shield my family from further scrutiny, to spare them the discomfort of feeling like outsiders under the gaze of those who arrived before them.

As the trio departed, their offhand remarks about my family's appearance echoed in my mind, adding a twinge of discomfort to the already challenging task of integration. Bixbus, with its raw, unvarnished reality, was light-years removed from the familiar, close-knit community of the church back home. The sense of belonging my parents derived from their faith and community would be sorely tested here, where survival took precedence over ceremony, and the tangible over the spiritual. Mum, in particular, with her deep-rooted connection to her former community, would find this transition the most jarring, a thought that weighed heavily on me.

Standing near the entrance of Bixbus, I found myself playing the role of a reluctant tour guide, my hand sweeping across the landscape to highlight the makeshift structures that constituted our settlement. The caravans and motorhomes, each with its own story of adaptation and survival, stood like silent sentinels of our resilience. The row of large tents, erected with a mix of ingenuity and desperation, fluttered slightly in the breeze.

My gaze shifted to the communal bonfire, its embers glowing softly in the daylight, a focal point of our existence here where stories, laughter, and the occasional argument mingled with the crackling flames. It was here, in the flickering light, that the stark reality of our situation often seemed most bearable, the flames casting long shadows that somehow made our isolation feel less profound.

As my finger traced the path of the large river behind the tents, a vital artery of life in this arid landscape, I inadvertently let slip about the lagoon nestled a few hills away. Jerome's face, usually so reflective of his inner thoughts, brightened at the mention, his youthful curiosity sparked by the idea of undiscovered places. A pang of regret hit me immediately; the lagoon, with its own set of complexities and dangers, was a topic I wasn't prepared to delve into, especially not with the innocence of exploration lighting up Jerome's eyes.

Wrapping up the tour with a hastiness born of my growing unease, I concluded, “And there, you have it.”

Dad's question, “Is this it?” as we approached the low-burning campfire, carried an undercurrent of disappointment, or perhaps it was just a reflection of my own feelings projected onto his words. “Yep. Welcome to Bixbus,” I responded, my voice a blend of pride for what we had achieved and resignation to the many limitations that still defined us.

Mum's question, laden with a mix of hope and confusion, seemed to echo unnaturally in the open air of Bixbus. “So, this isn’t the New Jerusalem?” she asked, her voice tinged with a hint of disillusionment that struck a chord deep within me. The weight of her expectations and the stark reality of our surroundings collided in that moment, creating an almost palpable tension.

The air grew heavier, the awkwardness intensifying as Karen's voice cut through the momentary silence. “What the fuck’s a New Jerusalem?” she mumbled, her words unintentionally abrasive, her confusion over the term inadvertently adding to the discomfort.

I felt a strong urge to vanish into the vast, unforgiving landscape of Clivilius, to escape the complexity of merging my family’s old world beliefs with their new world reality. “Karen,” I called out, my voice hesitant, as I gestured for her to approach. Redirecting the conversation, I asked, “Do you happen to know where we might be able to find some temporary clothing for my parents?” The request was a lifeline, an attempt to steer the focus towards something tangible, something immediate, and away from the theological and existential questions hanging over us.

Karen’s demeanour shifted as she considered the request, her features moulding into an expression of thoughtful consideration. “Follow me,” she responded after a moment, signalling a practical direction we could take amidst the swirling uncertainties. She beckoned for my parents to accompany her, and I nudged them gently to follow, a part of me grateful for the temporary reprieve her task offered.

As they departed with Karen, I remained stationary, enveloped in the quiet aftermath of their absence. The mixed emotions swirling within me—affection for my family intertwined with a sense of overwhelm at their presence in this harsh new world—were a lot to process. Watching them walk away, I realised that sometimes, dealing with the challenges of family, especially in such an unusual context, was best managed one small step at a time.

When Luke finally sauntered back into camp, a wave of relief washed over me, quickly overtaken by a surge of irritation. "What's taken you so long?" I found myself demanding, the sharpness in my voice betraying my growing frustration. "We've been waiting ages for you!"

Luke's response was a mumbled "Sorry," his eyes darting away, evading the full weight of my exasperation. His casual demeanour did little to quell my annoyance, especially as he quizzically eyed Mum, his voice tinged with a hint of amusement. "Whose clothes?" he inquired, undoubtedly noting the odd assortment of attire she now donned.

It was then that Karen stepped forward from Luke's shadow, her presence prompting a startled reaction from him. "I've lent her some of mine, since you were taking so long," she stated, her tone infused with a sternness that commanded attention. Her intervention, while helpful, underscored Luke's lack of promptness, adding another layer to the morning’s complexities.

Luke's gratitude, "Thanks, Karen. That's very kind of you," was tinged with a genuine note of appreciation, a brief respite in the mounting tension. His acknowledgment, however, did little to alleviate the underlying currents of dissatisfaction and miscommunication swirling around us.

Karen, however, wasn’t done. "I'm not sure that your mother agrees that it was a suitable conversation," she remarked, her expression serious.

As I rolled my eyes, a sense of weariness settled over me. The playful banter that had once been a source of light relief was now just another facet of the day's frustrations. The cumulative effect of these minor irritations and misunderstandings was beginning to take its toll, each adding a thread to the tapestry of our strained adaptation to life on Clivilius. In this moment, the challenges of forging a new existence in this alien landscape felt all too real, amplified by the interplay of personalities and the pressing need to find our footing as a family in this unfamiliar world.

"Anyway," I cut in, feeling the urgent need to steer the conversation away from the current tangent. I grabbed the suitcases from Luke and handed them over to my parents. "We're expecting the first of the sheds to be completed today," I mentioned, trying to infuse a bit of optimism into the atmosphere. "So why don't you bring us some of the food storage from home?"

Karen's reaction was immediate, a mix of curiosity and skepticism as she queried, "Food storage?" Her tone, layered with intrigue, suggested that the concept was a novelty to her.

Mum's response was swift, her voice swelling with a blend of pride and nostalgia. "Our church leaders have always taught the diligent Saints to have twelve months of food storage," she explained, her eyes gleaming with a sense of accomplishment. She glanced at Dad, sharing a moment of shared pride over their adherence to this principle. "It's always been Noah's pride and joy. We've been ever so obedient."

The skepticism on Karen's face was evident, her expression mirroring the internal struggle to reconcile this new information with her own experiences.

Jerome chimed in, reinforcing Mum's point. "Seriously, she's not lying. There's literally an entire room dedicated just to food storage." His confirmation added weight to the claim, illustrating the extent of my parents' commitment to this practice.

Dad, buoyed by the opportunity to share his passion, eagerly listed the contents of their storage. "There are tins of vegetables, pasta varieties of almost every kind, containers of flour and sugar, and—"

Karen, with a wry grin, cut him off. "Well, it looks as though that obedience of yours is about to actually pay off." Her glance toward Luke, accompanied by a knowing smile, acknowledged the unexpected benefit of my parents' preparedness, especially in our current circumstances.

With the conversation now veering into a direction that felt productively tangible, I found a momentary sense of relief. Addressing Luke, I suggested, "Karen's been busy emptying a lot of shopping trolleys from last night's raid. Could you take them back to Earth and fill them with food stuff?" It struck me as a logical plan, a way to meld our current predicament with the resources my parents had meticulously gathered over the years.

Luke's demeanour changed instantly, his eyes alight with the kind of purpose that seemed to invigorate his spirit. "Yeah, that should work," he agreed, his voice infused with a newfound enthusiasm.

Karen, ever the pragmatist, quickly chimed in, "Jerome and I will collect the empty trolleys and bring them to the Portal for you."

Jerome's response, a loud and drawn-out sigh, echoed his reluctance. Yet, under Mum's watchful eye and firm encouragement—"Go and make yourself useful"—he couldn't muster any real resistance. Her words, though gentle, carried an undeniable authority that spurred him into action, however begrudgingly.

As the trio dispersed to carry out their respective tasks, I found myself in a rare moment of solitude with my parents. The bustling activity around us stood in stark contrast to the stillness that settled between us. My mind raced, considering how best to engage them in this alien setting. It was crucial to find a balance, to integrate them into our daily life here without overwhelming them with the stark realities of Clivilius.

Dad's ability to adapt was something I'd always admired. He had a resilience that seemed to stem from a deep well of inner strength, and I was confident he'd find his footing here, even if the dynamics of our makeshift community were miles away from the structured church gatherings he was accustomed to. His knack for making himself useful would undoubtedly come in handy.

Mum, on the other hand, presented a more complex challenge. Her sense of displacement was palpable, and her usual avenues for engagement—those rooted in church and community back home—were conspicuously absent here. Her question about our house in Clivilius, so full of hope and expectation, struck a chord of sympathy within me.

"Where’s our house again?" she asked, looking around with a mixture of curiosity and a hint of bewildered anticipation. Her voice, tinged with a genuine expectation, seemed to echo poignantly in the sparse expanse of our settlement.

The question was a stark reminder of the gap between her expectations and our reality. The concept of 'our house' here was a far cry from the warm, inviting home we had left behind. In Clivilius, 'home' had taken on a new meaning, one defined by necessity and survival rather than comfort and familiarity.

Dad's presence beside Mum, his expression mirroring her inquiry, only amplified the weight of the situation. Their united front of confusion and subtle hope made my heart sink. How much more could I convey the truth without crushing their spirits?

Feeling the pressure of their expectant gazes, I realised there was no easy way around it. "What you see is what you get," I admitted, my voice laced with a reluctant acceptance.