Dan came to with the feeling that someone had kicked him straight in the brain with a boot. It did not really hurt. It just rang inside his skull, hollow and echoing.

  He was lying face down in the dirt. Saliva dripped onto the damp grass. Something tickled his nostril. Probably an ant. Maybe two.

  The grass beneath him felt cool and alive. It smelled of moisture and growing things. Unpleasantly alive.

  He tried to move. Pain answered from everywhere in his body. It was nothing like a hangover or the fatigue after a long shift. Everything felt too real. The air stung his nose with its freshness. Somewhere a bird croaked, rough and rusty, like a nail scraping metal.

  He rolled onto his back. Above him hung a green ceiling. Dense leaves, strands of moss, scattered patches of light. No sky. No open gap.

  His hand went to his pockets out of habit. Empty. The knife was gone. The watch too. No phone.

  His fingers touched something cold on his neck. A tag. He lifted it closer to his eyes, trying to focus on the engraved letters. Small, sharp, military.

  It took a few seconds for his mind to wake up. When the words finally formed, it felt like someone had turned on the lights in his head.

  PELLETIER, DANIEL M. Captain. Medical Corps. Canadian Armed Forces.

  He ran his finger over the letters. The cold metal under his skin triggered a rush of memories.

  His name settled into place. Age thirty four. Born in Calgary, Alberta, Canada. His mother taught French to elementary school kids. His father was a petroleum engineer who spent most of his life away on rotations.

  Then the rest followed on its own. School. University. Medical school. Assignment.

  He had never wanted to be a hero. He had simply chosen a job that let him feel useful. Night shifts. The smell of antiseptic. Hands that knew how to treat wounds. A comrade's voice asking for help and the calm routine that followed. Assess. Stop the bleeding. Bandage. Wait for evacuation.

  He was never a leader. Never chased attention. In normal life he blended in with people just like him. Coffee in hand. Tired eyes. Average height. Short haircut. A T shirt that always looked a little wrinkled.

  His fellow soldiers respected him without saying much. They simply knew that when things fell apart, Dan would not panic. Not because he was some kind of superhero, but because he was used to doing what had to be done.

  The tag dropped back onto his chest. His thoughts lined up.

  "At least you're still with me," he muttered.

  The words carried more weight than he expected. A piece of his past was still there. That meant he could act.

  Dan pushed himself up, leaning on his palms, and looked around.

  Forest everywhere. Thick. Foreign. Strangely clean. No paths. No trash. No sign of people. Only trees, vines, and silence.

  "Where the hell am I?" he asked out loud, though he knew no one would answer.

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  He tried to remember the last thing before waking up here. Only fragments came. White light. A strange hum. The feeling that his body was being taken apart and put back together. And voices.

  Not words exactly. More like meanings pushed straight into his mind.

  "Right. Sure," he said to himself. "Concussion. Hallucinations. Or..."

  He stopped.

  If the light and the voices had been real, then things were a lot more complicated.

  Thinking about that now was a luxury.

  First he needed to survive. Find water. Find a road. Find people. Then he could start asking questions.

  Dan stood up. His joints cracked. His knee complained with an old pain, a souvenir from a bad jump off an armored vehicle three years ago.

  He scanned the forest again, trying to remember the survival training they had forced on them. It had been a short course meant for medics, not commandos. The instructor, a gray haired ranger veteran, had looked bored the entire time while talking to a room full of what he called "doctors."

  Back then Dan had half listened, passed the test, and forgotten most of it.

  Still, something remained. Move in a straight line. Look for water. Climb higher ground. Watch for smoke.

  And observe. Life had taught him that better than any course.

  The forest was not just thick. It felt wrong.

  The trees were enormous. Older than anything he had ever seen. He ran a hand over a vine as thick as his wrist and half expected a tour guide to step out and tell him this was some theme park attraction or a movie set.

  No one appeared.

  No engine noise. No distant machines. Not even a plane in the sky. Just wind, an occasional bird call, and silence.

  The kind of silence that made his ears ring.

  He started walking, choosing a gentle slope downward. Water usually collected in low ground. That lesson had come not from instructors but from books.

  Dan had always read a lot. Obsessively. Without much order. Adventure novels. Popular science. Survival articles. While other soldiers scrolled their phones, he could sit in a corner of the barracks reading about irrigation in ancient Egypt or how Australian Aboriginal tribes found water in the desert.

  His curiosity had always been endless. He believed it was better to know a little about everything than everything about one thing.

  Now that habit might be the only advantage he had.

  He pushed through bushes, trying to stay quiet. The forest lived its own life.

  A branch snapped somewhere.

  Dan froze.

  Silence.

  Only his heart beating.

  "Damn," he whispered. "Lost. Or dead. If this is heaven, someone oversold it."

  He glanced at the moss under his boots.

  "Fine. Water. Road. People. Any order will do."

  The slope did lead him to water. Not a river like he had hoped. Just a muddy pool that looked close to a swamp, covered with duckweed.

  He scooped some with his hand and sniffed it. Not rotten.

  He took a sip and immediately spat it out.

  "Delicious," he told himself.

  The taste was awful, but his throat stopped burning. Good enough.

  He stood there looking at the water when a thought crept in.

  What if this was not just a forest?

  What if this was not Earth?

  Or not his time?

  He remembered a geologist friend who liked to talk about prehistoric eras. He remembered a book he had once read about human evolution. The scattered pieces of knowledge in his head suddenly formed an uneasy picture.

  Dan shook it off.

  No. Impossible. Too insane.

  But then again, white light and voices inside his head sounded insane too.

  "Don't think about it," he told himself. "Survive first. Figure it out later."

  He stepped away from the water and noticed a mark in the grass.

  Not a footprint. More like a long dent, as if something heavy had been dragged through. Another one nearby. Then a paw print.

  Dan crouched down and studied it in the soft soil. Fresh. The edges had not collapsed yet.

  "A cat," he murmured. "A big one."

  Branches cracked in the bushes.

  About twenty meters away.

  Something was breathing there. Deep. Slow.

  Dan slowly straightened, careful not to move too quickly. His heart dropped into his stomach.

  Then it stepped out from the trees.

  Huge. Massive. Its fur looked like a moving shadow. The fangs sticking out of its mouth were as long as his palm. Cold yellow eyes watched him with quiet focus.

  Dan froze.

  His mind flashed through everything at once. Biology textbooks. Nature documentaries. Scientific articles. Skull shape. Fang length. Heavy paws.

  "A saber tooth," he whispered.

  "I never got along with cats."

  The beast took a step forward. Muscles rolled under its hide like thick ropes.

  Dan knew running was useless. The animal was faster. Stronger. And he had no weapon.

  No chance.

  But instinct shouted louder than reason.

  He ran.

  And the beast ran after him.

  Right now his only goal is simple: stay alive.