Theron woke to a sound he didn't recognize.

  Not the crackle of his fire. Not the wind in the trees. Not the distant calls of unfamiliar birds. This was lower, rougher—a sound that might have been an animal but wasn't. A sound that might have been the wind but wasn't.

  A groan.

  He was on his feet before he was fully awake, spear in hand, heart hammering. The fire had burned low overnight—he'd let it, trusting the amadou fungus to hold an ember—and gray dawn light filtered through the trees.

  The groan came again. Closer than he'd thought. From the direction of the stream.

  He moved carefully, quietly, stepping around rocks and avoiding dry leaves. The sound grew louder, more distinct. A voice. Human. In pain.

  He crested a small rise and saw him.

  A man. Collapsed near the stream bank, half in the water, half out. Leather clothing—the same kind the hunters had worn. Dark hair, matted with sweat and blood. And the wound—

  Theron's surgeon eye took it in instantly. Gut wound. Gored by something—the pattern was wrong for a spear, too wide, too tearing. Horn? Tusk? The man's tunic was soaked dark red, and the smell hit Theron even from twenty feet away.

  Infection. Advanced. The sickly sweet smell of putrefaction, the kind that meant bacteria had been working for days.

  The man groaned again, tried to move, and collapsed.

  Theron's feet carried him forward before his brain finished deciding. He knelt by the man, checked for weapons—none in reach—and assessed.

  Unconscious. Feverish—skin hot to the touch. Pulse thready and fast. Breathing shallow. The wound was a mess: a tearing gash in the lower abdomen, edges ragged, surrounded by red, swollen skin. Pus seeped from the edges. The smell was unmistakable.

  Peritonitis. Maybe sepsis. He's been like this for days.

  The man's face was familiar. The scar on his cheek. The leader from the hunting camp. The one who'd found the fish.

  Dorn. The name came from nowhere—he didn't know if that was actually his name, but it fit somehow. The man needed a name, needed to be a person, not just a body.

  "Dorn," Theron said quietly. "I'm going to help you. I don't know if you can hear me, but I'm going to try."

  He worked fast. First, move him away from the water—the stream was cold, and the man was already hypothermic on top of everything else. Theron hooked his arms under the man's shoulders and dragged. The man was heavy—muscular, solid—and Theron's back screamed, but he kept moving until they were on dry grass near a flat rock.

  Okay. Assess properly.

  He peeled back the man's tunic. The wound was worse than he'd thought. A tearing gash, six inches long, probably from a horn or tusk. Deep—he could see loops of intestine through the opening, thankfully intact. But the infection was aggressive. Red streaks radiated from the wound. The surrounding skin was hot and tight.

  Needs cleaning. Needs drainage. Needs antibiotics I don't have.

  He had his stream. He had his fire. He had the aloe-like plant, which might help with inflammation. He had clean hides from his camp. He had the bone knife.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  It would have to be enough.

  He looked at the unconscious man. Dorn. His face was gray under the tan, lips cracked, breathing rapid.

  You're going to make it. I've seen worse. Guy came into my ER once, fell through a window, you wouldn't believe the mess. He made it. You'll make it.

  He ran to his camp.

  ---

  Boiling water took time—time the man didn't have. Theron worked as fast as he could, building up the fire, filling his stone bowl—a shallow depression in a flat rock that held water—and heating rocks to drop in it. Primitive boiling, but it worked.

  He gathered his supplies: clean hides torn into strips, the aloe-like plant, the bone knife, a curved bone needle he'd found at the hunting camp and kept. No thread. He'd have to improvise.

  Back at the stream, Dorn hadn't moved. Still alive—chest rising and falling—but no better.

  Theron knelt beside him.

  "Okay. Here's what's going to happen. I'm going to clean this wound. It's going to hurt. You're going to scream, probably. That's fine. Screaming means you're alive."

  He poured boiled water over the wound, watching the pus and debris wash away. Dorn's body jerked, a groan escaping his throat, but he didn't wake.

  Good. Stay under.

  He examined the wound more closely now. The intestine was intact—miracle, given the depth. The muscle layer was torn but could be saved. The skin edges were ragged, necrotic in places.

  Debridement. Cut away the dead tissue. Then close.

  He used the bone knife, sharp as it was. It wasn't a scalpel—it tore as much as it cut—but it worked. He trimmed the blackened edges, watching for bright blood to indicate living tissue. Dorn moaned, thrashed weakly. Theron paused, let him settle, kept going.

  When the wound was clean—as clean as he could make it—he packed it with mashed aloe-like plant. The coolness seemed to help; Dorn's body relaxed slightly. Then he bound it with clean hide strips, tight enough to hold but loose enough to drain.

  Done. Now we wait.

  He sat back, breathing hard. His hands were covered in blood and pus. He washed them in the stream, then sat beside Dorn and waited.

  ---

  The man woke at dusk.

  Theron had moved him closer to the fire, wrapped him in dried grass for insulation, and kept watch all day. He'd forced water between his lips whenever possible, checking for fever spikes, monitoring his breathing.

  When Dorn's eyes opened, they were confused, unfocused. He tried to sit up, gasped at the pain, and fell back.

  "Easy. Easy." Theron put a hand on his chest, gentle but firm. "You're hurt. Don't move."

  Dorn stared at him. Fear in his eyes—understandable. A stranger, a foreigner, leaning over him while he was helpless.

  Theron pointed at himself. "Theron." Then at Dorn's wound. "Hurt. I help." He made a healing gesture, hands together, then pointed at the bandages.

  Dorn's eyes went to his own stomach. He saw the clean bindings, felt the pressure, understood. His body relaxed slightly. He looked back at Theron and said something—a word, maybe a name.

  It sounded like "Dorn."

  Theron nodded. "Dorn. Yes. Dorn." He pointed at himself again. "Theron."

  Dorn's cracked lips moved. "Theh-ron." Close enough.

  Then his eyes rolled back, and he was unconscious again.

  Theron checked his pulse—stronger than before. Checked his temperature—lower. The infection was still there, still dangerous, but the fever had broken slightly. He was fighting.

  Good. Keep fighting.

  ---

  That night, Theron didn't sleep.

  He sat by the fire, Dorn beside him, and kept watch. Every hour, he checked the wound—red but not spreading, no new pus. Every hour, he wet Dorn's lips, forced more water. Every hour, he talked.

  "I don't know if you can hear me, but I'm going to talk anyway. Old habit. Used to talk to patients on the table—keeps me calm, keeps them calm even if they're unconscious. My nurses thought I was crazy. Maybe I am."

  He added wood to the fire.

  "I have a daughter. Emma. She's in college. Wants to be a teacher, like her mother. Claire—that's my wife. She teaches high school. English. Kids love her. They bring her apples on the first day of school, can you believe that? Apples. Like something out of a movie."

  He checked Dorn's pulse. Steady.

  "I have a son too. Ben. Sixteen. Plays guitar terribly. I mean really terribly. But he loves it, so we never told him otherwise. Claire says he'll get better. I say it doesn't matter if he doesn't. He's happy. That's what matters."

  He wet Dorn's lips.

  "They're gone now. I mean, I'm gone. They're still there, probably. Mourning me. I hope they're okay. I hope Claire's sister came to stay with them. I hope Ben keeps playing guitar. I hope Emma graduates."

  His voice cracked. He stopped, breathed, continued.

  "You probably don't understand a word I'm saying. That's okay. I just need to say it. Need someone to hear it, even if that someone is unconscious and speaks a different language."

  Dorn's hand twitched. Theron looked down. The man's fingers had moved slightly, curling toward Theron's hand. Not conscious. Just reflex. But it felt like something.

  You're not alone either, he thought. You have people somewhere. People who are probably looking for you. People who love you.

  He checked the wound again. Still stable.

  I'll keep you alive until they find you. I promise.

  ---

  Dawn came slowly, gray and cold. Theron was exhausted, barely able to keep his eyes open. But when he checked Dorn's forehead, it was cool. When he checked the wound, the redness had faded. When he peeled back the bandage, the edges were pink and healthy, not angry and swollen.

  The infection was retreating.

  Theron sat back, stared at the sky, and laughed. It was a broken sound, half sob, half relief. But it was laughter.

  "You made it, Dorn. I don't know how, but you made it."

  Dorn's eyes opened. This time they were clearer, more focused. He looked at Theron, at the fire, at the bandages on his stomach. He lifted one hand weakly, touched the bindings, then looked at Theron with an expression that needed no translation.

  Thank you.

  Theron nodded. "You're welcome. Now rest. You're not better yet."

  Dorn didn't understand the words, but he understood the tone. He closed his eyes and slept—real sleep, healing sleep.

  Theron sat beside him, watching the sun rise over the trees, and let himself feel the exhaustion. He'd done it. He'd saved someone. In this strange world, with no equipment, no help, no backup, he'd saved someone.

  He leaned against a rock, closed his eyes just for a moment, and was asleep before he finished the thought.