"Hey, Emma," Mrs. Suzi Petrov said as she stirred a large pot of stew.
"You shouldn't have been so harsh with the kid."
She ladled an extra-large portion into a bowl and set it in front of Emma.
"I know you don't have much experience dealing with someone your age," Mrs. Suzi continued, her voice soft but firm.
"But that boy probably just wanted to look cool in front of you."
Mrs. Suzi had a kind, grandmotherly air about her — even if she wasn't technically related to anyone here.
At sixty-two years old, she stood about five-foot-six, with silver-gray hair neatly pinned back and light gray eyes full of patient wisdom.
Her heart-shaped face was lined with gentle wrinkles, and today she wore a pastel green dress, carefully patched from years of use.
Emma let out a small sigh, blowing on the hot soup she barely wanted to touch. The sweltering heat outside made the thought of soup almost unbearable.
"Yeah, I know..." she muttered.
"Even old man Kevin said I went too far."
Mrs. Suzi gave a small hum as she continued serving bowls for the rest of the crew, who were washing up nearby.
"I hope you know what to do when you see the boy again," Mrs. Suzi said, her tone leaving no room for argument.
Emma gave a small, sheepish smile.
"Yes, grandmi," she said, using the affectionate nickname she had given the old woman years ago.
"I'll apologize as soon as I see him again. I promise."
The conversation shifted after that as the others began sitting down, talking about the day's work and the upcoming patrols.
Meanwhile, across the enclave, Julian was sitting with Harris Blake under the shade of a small wooden awning.
He had taken the opportunity to ask a question that had been bothering him since reading the journals.
"Did you ever find her again?" Julian asked quietly, referring to Harris's wife — the woman lost in the Time Slip.
Harris leaned back, his expression unreadable for a long moment.
"No," he said finally.
"Sadly, we haven't."
He folded his arms across his chest, his gaze distant.
"There are just too many islands. Without setting a proper gate marker, it's almost impossible to find the same one twice."
Julian nodded slowly, remembering the mention of gate markers in Harris's journal.
"I guess you must know I read about the gates," Julian said.
Harris gave a faint smile.
"Yeah. That's why we hand out those books. Saves us answering the same questions over and over."
Julian chuckled under his breath.
He hesitated, then asked another question.
"I'm still stumped, though," Julian said.
"How did you even figure out how to make those gates? Just by finding random materials?"
Harris's eyes glinted slightly — part pride, part sadness.
"There's a lot you don't know yet, kid," Harris said, his voice calm. "But don't worry. If you stick around, you'll learn. One way or another."
"If it's about that," Harris said, rolling up a few dry weeds into thin paper, "you should have read that we can't figure out why either."
He struck a match, lighting the crude cigar with a slow breath.
"The whole event that brought us here is still a mystery. All I can say is that it probably started in the future — and it dragged anyone near what used to be the Atlantic Ocean into these islands."
He leaned back, puffing smoke into the warm afternoon air.
Julian wrinkled his nose at the strong, acrid scent.
"Is smoking still a thing in the future?" he asked, half-joking, waving the smoke away from his face.
Harris let out a rough chuckle.
"Let me guess — you're from before 2045."
He tapped ash off the edge of the rolled cigarette, studying Julian with narrowed eyes.
"I shouldn't talk about the future too much. Might mess things up, you know? We made it a rule — no spoilers for those who still hope to get back to their time."
He took two more long puffs before continuing.
"If you ever decide to stay here permanently," Harris said, "then sure. We can talk all day about how things went."
Julian shook his head politely.
"No sir, thank you," he said.
The smell was already enough to turn him off from trying.
He shifted the conversation.
"So... can you tell me what life is like here? And what I could do to help?"
Harris smiled slightly, stubbing out the cigarette against a nearby stone.
"Life's... decent," he said after a pause.
"Could be worse."
He waved a hand through the lingering smoke.
"This crap is bad, sure, but it keeps my nerves in check."
Julian listened closely, sensing the older man's words carried more weight than they seemed to at first.
"You're lucky we found you," Harris added, his voice low.
"It's bad out there. Real bad. But humans... we're creatures of habit. We adapt."
He folded his arms across his chest and glanced out over the camp.
"As for how you can contribute..."
Harris paused, thinking.
"We need someone to help with mechanical work. With two pilots now — Michael and George — I'm hoping one of them knows enough to help keep our generators and basic machines running."
Julian nodded, already feeling the responsibility settling on his shoulders.
"And one more thing," Harris said, his voice serious.
"About the nights here — don't wander."
Julian's eyes widened slightly.
"Creatures hunt after dark," Harris explained.
"Especially the raptors."
He leaned in slightly, his tone grim.
"They've gotten inside the walls before. Broke into houses. Took a couple of lives."
Julian swallowed hard.
Harris pointed casually toward the ground.
"We built tunnels underneath the enclave," he said.
"If anything happens — if you hear the alarm — you get underground. Fast."
Julian nodded again, the full weight of survival here finally sinking in.
Before he could ask another question, movement caught both their eyes.
Michael — one of the pilots who had crashed with Julian — was making his way over, looking around cautiously before approaching.
It seemed the quiet talk was about to turn serious.
"I asked the doctor who's in charge around here," Michael said, stopping a few feet away.
"He described someone like you."
He nodded toward Harris.
"You must be Harris, the leader of this group."
Harris gave a small nod but said nothing yet.
"I know you need a mechanic," Michael continued, scratching his chin thoughtfully.
"So I'll just sign up for that role. No point wasting time."
Then he glanced over at Julian, eyeing him curiously.
"You must have nothing better to do, kid," Michael said with a smirk.
"How about helping me out? The more hands working on the mechanical stuff, the better."
He waited a few seconds, expecting answers from both Harris and Julian.
"I am," Harris finally said, stepping forward.
"My name's Harris Blake."
He extended a rough, calloused hand, shaking Michael's firmly.
"I hope you can handle the job," Harris said.
"We really need someone to check the generator."
He pointed toward a large, battered machine at the far edge of the camp. Even from a distance, black smoke was pouring out of it like a dying beast.
"I see it," Michael said, frowning slightly.
"Should be easy enough to check.
Can't say if it'll be easy to fix until I open it up, though."
He turned back toward Julian, waiting.
Julian hesitated only a second before answering.
"I guess I've got nothing to lose," he said.
"And a lot to learn. Might as well stay busy."
Truthfully, he didn't feel ready to socialize with the others yet — not after the embarrassment earlier with Emma.
At least working on machines gave him an excuse to keep to himself for a while.
"Good," Harris said, giving both of them an approving look.
"If you need any tools, go ask Kevin, our blacksmith. The boy should know who he is."
He clapped each of them once on the shoulder, strong but not unfriendly, before turning and walking off to handle other camp business.
Michael watched him leave, then stretched his arms above his head.
"It's about twelve-thirty," he said, checking the sun's position.
"Let's hurry so we can finish before lunch."
He grinned.
"I think they're serving hot pot today. Let's take just long enough so the food cools down — no point burning our tongues."
With that, he headed toward the smoking generator without waiting for Julian to catch up.
Julian took a deep breath and followed, feeling a strange mixture of nerves and excitement.
Maybe — just maybe — this was the first real step toward making a place for himself in this strange new world.