Blood Tests and Broken Plans

The solo drive north toward Gundagai required every ounce of concentration Sal could muster. The bus responded to her increasingly confident touch—she'd come so far from those first nervous kilometres in Tasmania—but Anth's absence felt like missing ballast, throwing off the vehicle's emotional balance even as it tracked true on the highway. Thirty minutes outside Albury, practical necessity intervened. A truck stop provided safe haven for her scheduled group meeting, the online fitness coaching that funded their freedom requiring professional presence despite personal upheaval.

"Good morning, everyone!" Sal projected enthusiasm into her laptop camera, the bus's interior providing familiar backdrop while her clients remained unaware of the emotional storm barely contained beneath professional veneer.

The meeting completed, she continued north through landscapes that blurred past windows suddenly too quiet. No commentary from Anth about geological formations, no shared excitement over wildlife sightings, no comfortable silence that comes from years of partnership. Just the diesel engine's steady rhythm and her own thoughts for company.

The day filled itself with obligations that provided blessed distraction. University lectures streamed through the laptop, assignment deadlines demanding attention, work calls requiring focus. Yet between each task, during every pause, Anth's absence asserted itself with almost physical presence. The passenger seat sat empty, the dinette table showed too much space, even the bed seemed to have expanded in his absence—all that extra room somehow making her feel smaller rather than freer.

"Life is good," Sal told herself as afternoon wore toward evening, trying to shift focus toward upcoming positives. Soon she'd see Jan and Liz, her two best friends who'd been supporting this adventure from afar. Then her mother would join for a road trip toward Queensland—different company, different dynamics, new adventures to overlay this aching absence.

Meanwhile, in Melbourne's clinical facility, Anth had settled into the familiar rhythm of trial participation. The day had passed in typical fashion—blood draws at prescribed intervals, meals at designated times, the strange camaraderie that develops among people choosing temporary confinement for financial gain. As evening descended, he'd organised his favourite social activity, gathering fellow participants for Blood on the Clocktower—the social deduction game that had become his signature contribution to trial culture.

"I was the Empath," someone declared as the game reached its crescendo near midnight. "And I still don't know who the demon is!"

The game provided perfect distraction from missing Sal, from wondering how her solo drive had progressed, from counting the days until reunion. Players assumed roles of villagers and demons, creating elaborate narratives of deception and deduction that could consume hours without notice. Anth had introduced this game to dozens of trials, watching friendships form across the storytelling table, building community within confinement.

Then, at almost midnight, clinical reality shattered the game's fantasy. A doctor appeared at Anth's shoulder with expression that every trial participant learned to fear—sympathetic but firm, apologetic but absolute.

"I'm sorry, but you've been excluded from the trial," he delivered the verdict with practiced gentleness. "Your blood work shows levels outside our acceptable parameters."

The blow landed with particular force given the timing—twelve hours into what should have been a month-long commitment, their financial planning suddenly capsized, Sal already hundreds of kilometres away with the bus. Exclusion was always a risk in clinical trials, the fine print everyone acknowledged but nobody expected to experience. Bodies were unpredictable, biochemistry could betray at any moment, and the strict protocols that ensured scientific validity showed no mercy for personal circumstances.

"Right," Anth said after absorbing the shock, his mind already shifting into problem-solving mode. "What about the next trial? I'm already here, might as well screen for the upcoming one."

The facility, accustomed to such situations, accommodated his request for immediate rescreening. By morning, he'd completed the entrance requirements for another trial, though it wouldn't commence for two weeks. This gap presented logistical puzzle that required creative solution—Sal was already bound for Canberra with established plans, the bus was their only accommodation, and flying to meet her made more sense than any alternative.

The phone call to Sal carried mixed emotions across the digital distance. Disappointment at the lost income battled with unexpected joy at premature reunion, frustration with circumstances competed with relief that separation would be abbreviated. We crafted new plans with the adaptability that had become our hallmark—Sal would continue to Canberra as planned, maintaining her friend visits. Anth would fly there that night, and head out to camp somewhere close by.

Life on the ever-changing road had prepared us for exactly this—sudden reversals, failed plans transforming into unexpected opportunities, the need to remain fluid when fixed expectations proved brittle. What had seemed like month-long separation would now become brief interlude, though the financial impact would ripple through coming months. Yet even this concern felt manageable compared to the prospect of abbreviated absence.

As Anth booked his flight to Canberra, as Sal continued her solo journey north with lighter heart, we both reflected on how this day had encapsulated our nomadic existence. Plans made and unmade, tears shed and dried, separation begun and already ending—all of it part of the larger adventure we'd chosen. The platform at Wodonga wherewe had parted that morning already felt like ancient history, though barely twelve hours had passed.

Tomorrow would bring new configuration, but tonight, we each faced our own version of solitude. Sal in the bus that echoed with absence, Anth in the clinical facility preparing for unexpected departure. The month that had loomed so large had shrunk to mere days, proving once again that their journey's only constant was change itself, that adaptation mattered more than anticipation, that even failed trials could yield unexpected gifts.Read more