I shift automatically, stepping slightly in front of Charlotte as we move through the crowd, guiding us forward without slowing down.
The noise closes in, questions rising out of it.
“How long were you out there?”
“What happened to you?”
“Can you tell us what it was like?”
“Charlotte, over here.”
“Dane, can you comment?”
“How did you survive?”
They’re saying our names, and that’s what hits. Not the cameras. The voices. Too many of them, coming from every direction. For years, I’ve heard my name from only one person. Now it’s everywhere at once.
My hand settles at the small of Charlotte’s back, guiding her forward. “Keep going.”
A woman steps through the crowd, moving with purpose. She doesn’t raise her voice, but everything shifts around her.
“Dane, Charlotte—you’re safe. We’re going to get you checked out first. Just routine medical. After that, we’ve arranged a hotel so you can rest.”
I focus on her voice and let everything else fall away.
“Your family is on the way,” she adds.
Family. The word feels strange now, like something half-remembered from another life. “My mum?”
“Yes. And your grandfather, Michael Gallagher. He’ll be here tomorrow.”
“Grandad’s still alive. Wow. I can’t believe it.”
Charlotte stays close to me as we follow the woman through the noise.
Then they separate us for the medical checks. I don’t like it immediately—every instinct in me pushes against it—but they promise it won’t take long. That we’ll see each other again soon.
They lied. The medical checks feel endless, all questions and bright lights. Instruments I don’t recognize. Hands on my wrist counting my pulse, a cuff tightening around my arm.
They speak carefully, simplifying things as if I might not understand. I answer what I can and let the rest go. They take blood. Listen to my chest. Write things down.
When they’re done, we’re moved again—this time to a hotel. They take us to separate rooms.
Everything is white. Walls, sheets, ceiling. Clean in a way that feels almost sterile. The air smells like disinfectant. The bed is perfectly made, every line exact.
I stand in the middle of the room and feel what’s missing.
No ocean. No wind moving through trees.
I’m alone—for the first time in years—in the cleanest room I’ve seen in fourteen years.
It doesn’t feel right.
There’s a connecting door between the rooms. I look at it for a second, already knowing Charlotte is on the other side in a room exactly like this one.
I cross the room and tap on the door. She opens it almost immediately.
“I was about to knock,” she says.
