When the rain began, the shelter stretched between the branches barely held, but it did its job. The fire did not go out. The flames crackled under the cover and gave off warmth and light that reflected on the wet stones. Dan hung the pieces of tiger meat he had cut earlier that morning above the fire and waited until they roasted through. The smell was sharp and wild, but still familiar. It was the smell of life.

  While he was eating, he noticed that the water did not rise above his knees even in the lowest spots. Rainwater ran off the banks, but the island itself stayed mostly dry. A good sign. He had chosen the place well. It stood a little higher than the river, high enough to live without fear of being washed away by rising water.

  The island was small but convenient. Fast, noisy water on both sides formed a natural barrier. On the western side thick trees grew close together. Poplars, acacias, and here and there old baobabs twisted in strange shapes. Their hollow trunks could easily serve as storage places. The eastern shore was gentler. Soft grass grew there and there was open space for a fire.

  Yes, he could stay here. Maybe not forever, but long enough to matter.

  Now he needed real shelter. Not just a temporary cover, but something that could survive the night and the next rain. Not a tent either. He was clearly not on a hiking trip. This had to become a home. At least his first home in this world.

  He began with a frame, but the first version was unstable. He had to reinforce the side posts and dig them deeper into the ground. Only after that did the structure stand firmly. He cut several young trees, bent them into arcs, and fixed them into the soil to create the skeleton of the roof. Instead of rope he used strips of rawhide cut from the tiger’s skin.

  He wove branches between the supports, threw dry grass over them, and spread clay on top.

  He found the clay at the southern edge of the island where the river ate away at the bank and exposed a dense gray brown layer. The clay stuck to his fingers but did not crumble. Perfect for sealing gaps. The result looked rough and uneven. In some places lumps stuck out from the wall. Still, it held.

  The roof was harder. He found reeds and wide leaves and wove them into mats. Then he covered everything with another layer of grass. After several days the hut dried and became stronger. Inside it felt surprisingly comfortable, like the shelter of a hunter.

  He cleared the floor carefully, removing stones and debris. Then he covered it with dry leaves and grass. On top of that he spread animal skins. At first the skins were badly treated and rough, with a strong smell of beast. He began washing them in water, stretching them, drying them, rubbing them with stones and sand, then soaking them in fat like he had once seen in survival shows. Little by little they became softer and easier to tolerate.

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  Inside he built a raised sleeping platform from poles and bark so he would not lie directly on damp ground. Nearby he made a small fire pit lined with stones and openings for ventilation. Under the roof he placed a crossbar where he could hang meat out of reach of animals.

  He even made a door. It was a simple frame of branches covered with hide and attached with hinges made from vine. It would not stop a bear, but it kept out wind and snakes.

  On one wall he scratched something like a calendar with a stone. Marks and symbols that only he understood. Days. Events.

  With time new structures appeared around the hut. A lean to for firewood. A pile of stones and spare poles. A rack for drying meat. A small place where he worked clay and a crude stove. Everything looked rough, but there was logic behind it. An engineer’s kind of thinking.

  He had never built houses before. As an architect he would have been a disaster. Still, if the place did not collapse overnight, that meant the effort was worth it.

  There was plenty of water all around the island. It even looked clear. Still, he knew better than to trust what looked clean. At first he made a simple container for boiling water from bark. Such a thing would not last long. He needed real vessels.

  Clay.

  He went back to the southern end of the island where he had already taken clay to seal the hut. The deposit there was large. The clay was dense and rich, with small grains of sand mixed inside. It separated easily from the bank. Perfect material for his first attempt at pottery.

  When he returned, he began shaping it.

  No potter’s wheel. No tools. Only his fingers, patience, and memory. He wet his hands, tore off a lump of clay, and rolled it between his palms until it began to resemble a bowl. He made the base flat so it would stand firmly. Then he slowly raised the sides layer by layer, pressing the edges together carefully so cracks would not appear. As he once heard in a survival program, he made the walls thick so they would survive the drying process.

  He did not rush.

  Every movement felt careful, almost thoughtful, as if he were shaping not just a bowl but the idea of survival itself. It was an act of creation. Not only a useful object, but also a symbol.

  He was not a savage. He was building.

  The next day the bowl had dried slowly in the shade. It was hard but not completely dry. Dan lit a fire. Around the bowl he built a simple kiln. He laid stones in a circle, covered them with dry branches, left a small opening for heat to escape, and lit the fire inside.

  The first bowl cracked. The walls had been too thin to handle the heat.

  The second one he made thicker and dried for longer. That one worked.

  The clay bowl turned dark from the fire and blackened in places, but no cracks appeared. He cooled it slowly under moss so it would not break. When he poured water into it, nothing leaked.

  He did not even boil the water right away. Instead he held the bowl in his hands and turned it slowly, watching sunlight slide over the rough surface.

  The first thing he had truly made with his own hands.

  He smiled.

  "Well done, you useless potter. There is your MBA in survival," Dan muttered, filling the bowl with water and setting it beside the fire.

  Later he shaped another bowl, larger this time. Then something like a jug. After that he made a clumsy cup with a crooked handle just to see if he could. On some of them he scratched simple signs, lines, waves, circles. It felt almost childlike and instinctive.

  The problem of clean water was solved.

  At first he drank plain boiled water. Later he added roots and herbs he found in the nearby thickets.

  Fire, shelter, pottery. Nothing impressive by modern standards, but everything matters here.

  Does this pace work for you, or would you prefer to move faster?