Theron woke to the smell of rain.

  Not the clean smell of an ordinary storm. This was sharper, metallic, the same copper tang he'd noticed last night when the wind shifted. It hung in the air like a memory, faint but persistent.

  He sat up quickly, heart hammering, and scanned the sky.

  Gray. Overcast. But normal gray, the kind that meant ordinary rain, not the strange sideways clouds of last night. He relaxed slightly, then added wood to his fire—still embers, still alive—and looked toward the distant plains where the storm had been.

  Nothing. Just grass and sky and the normal morning haze.

  Was it real? Did I dream it?

  But his clothes still smelled faintly of copper. His hands, when he raised them to his face, carried the scent too. Real. It had been real.

  He sat by the fire, thinking. The frozen body in the grave. The crushed woman. The lightning that struck upward. The storm that moved against the wind.

  This world has rules I don't understand. Magic? Something else? Doesn't matter. What matters is staying alive until I figure them out.

  He stood, stretched his aching back, and considered his priorities for the day. Water—he had the stream. Food—he had berries, but needed more protein. Shelter—the overhang worked, but wouldn't last through winter. Whenever winter came. He didn't even know what season it was here, couldn't tell if the late-summer feel was accurate or just this region's climate.

  One thing at a time. Today: explore more. Learn more. Find more food. And maybe figure out what that storm was.

  He ate a handful of berries from yesterday's stash, checked his spear—still intact, the binding held—and started walking toward the plains.

  ---

  The walk took an hour. He moved carefully, watching for anything dangerous, noting landmarks as he went. A dead tree with a distinctive split trunk. A rock formation that looked like a sleeping animal. A stream crossing where the water ran shallow over smooth stones.

  The grass fields stretched before him, tall and golden, moving in waves with the wind. Beautiful, in a way. Peaceful. It was hard to believe that last night, this same field had hosted something impossible.

  He found the storm's impact zone by the smell.

  Copper, stronger now, thick enough to taste. He slowed, approached cautiously, crested a small rise—

  And stopped.

  The grass ahead was scorched. Not burned by fire—there were no ashes, no charred stems. Just... bleached. White. As if all the color had been leached out of it. A circle maybe fifty feet across, perfectly round, like someone had drawn it with a compass.

  In the center, the ground was glass.

  Theron walked closer, each step careful, his medical mind cataloging even as his primitive hindbrain screamed danger. The glass was greenish, swirled, formed in irregular chunks that caught the gray light and threw it back in rainbows. He'd seen something like it before—in photos of lightning strikes, where sand fused into fulgurites. But those were tubes, narrow channels. This was a sheet, a pool of melted earth that had cooled into something hard and smooth and wrong.

  He knelt at the edge, touched it with one finger. Cold. Smooth. Solid.

  What kind of heat does this? What kind of storm—

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  Movement caught his eye. At the far edge of the circle, something stirred. An animal? He tensed, ready to run or fight with his pathetic spear.

  A bird stood up.

  It was the size of a crow, but that's where the resemblance ended. Its feathers were gray, ordinary enough, but its eyes—its eyes were wrong. Too large. Too forward-facing. And they were looking directly at him with an intelligence that made his skin crawl.

  They stared at each other for a long moment. Then the bird opened its beak and made a sound that was not a bird sound.

  It was a hum. Low, vibrating, multiple notes at once. The sound seemed to bypass his ears and resonate directly in his chest, in his teeth, in the bones of his skull.

  Then it turned and hopped away, disappearing into the grass, and the hum faded with it.

  Theron stood there, heart pounding, hand gripping his spear so hard his knuckles were white.

  Okay. So the storm did... something. To the ground. To the animals. To—

  He didn't know what it did. He couldn't know. He was a trauma surgeon from Connecticut, not a xeno-biologist, not a wizard, not anything useful for understanding whatever this was.

  Rule one still applies. Don't die from magic. Stay away from weirdness.

  He backed away from the glass circle, from the place where the bird had been, from the smell of copper that clung to everything. He didn't run—running meant panic, and panic meant mistakes. But he walked fast, putting distance between himself and whatever had happened here.

  Only when he'd crossed the ridge and the smell faded did he stop, lean against a tree, and breathe.

  ---

  He spent the rest of the morning in the forest, deliberately avoiding the plains.

  The forest was better. Normal. Trees, ferns, moss, the ordinary sounds of birds and small animals. He could pretend, here, that he was just camping. Just a man on an extended hiking trip in a slightly strange part of the world.

  He foraged as he walked. More berries—different ones this time, small and blue, growing in clusters. He tested one, waited, felt fine. Added to his collection. He found mushrooms, pale and delicate, and left them alone. Too risky. He found a plant with leaves that looked like the aloe his wife had kept on the windowsill—thick, fleshy, oozing clear liquid when broken. He dabbed some on the cut on his palm. It cooled the skin, seemed to help. Good to know.

  By midday, he'd found a small clearing with a fallen log covered in shelf fungi. He recognized these—his grandfather had shown him, years ago. Not the kind you eat, but the kind that burns. Amadou. If you processed it right, it could catch sparks and hold embers forever. Fire transport.

  He harvested several pieces, wrapped them in a large leaf, and added them to his growing collection of useful things.

  I'm becoming a caveman. A very well-organized caveman.

  He sat on the fallen log, ate some berries, and thought about his situation.

  He had shelter—basic, but functional. He had water. He had a food source—berries and fish, if he could catch more. He had fire and the means to make it. He had tools—a crude spear, some sharp rocks, the beginnings of knowledge about local plants.

  He was surviving.

  But surviving wasn't living. Not yet. He needed more. Better shelter before winter—wherever winter was in this timeline. More reliable food. Clothing—his jeans and shirt wouldn't last forever, and nights were already cool. And he needed to understand this world, its dangers, its possibilities, its people.

  There have to be people. The grave proved that. People live here. People fight and die here. Maybe friendly people. Maybe not.

  He thought about the hunting camp he'd seen—abandoned, but recent. Someone had been there, not long ago. If he could find them, maybe—

  Maybe they kill strangers on sight. Maybe they're the ones who made that grave.

  He didn't know. Couldn't know. And until he knew, caution was his only ally.

  He stood, stretched, and headed deeper into the forest.

  ---

  The afternoon brought more discoveries.

  He found a stream—not the same one near his camp, a different one, smaller and faster. He followed it upstream and found a pool where fish gathered, fat and lazy. He marked the location in his memory. Tomorrow, he'd come back with his spear.

  He found a grove of nut trees—the nuts were hard-shelled and unfamiliar, but when he cracked one open with a rock, the meat inside smelled edible. He tested a small piece, waited, felt fine. Added nuts to his diet.

  He found animal tracks—more of the wrong-toed prints from yesterday, plus smaller ones that looked like rabbit but weren't. He avoided them. He wasn't ready for large animals. He wasn't ready for any animals.

  And he found, late in the afternoon, something that made his heart leap.

  A footprint.

  Human. Barefoot, but human. Fresh—the edges hadn't crumbled, the soil was still slightly damp from morning dew. One footprint, then another, leading north through a gap in the trees.

  He followed them, cautious, quiet. The trail led to a small clearing—and there, evidence of occupation.

  A fire pit, still warm. Hides spread to dry. A pile of bones from recent meals. Tools—stone knives, a bone needle, a roughly shaped bowl. Someone had been here. Recently. Hours ago, maybe.

  Theron stood at the edge of the clearing, heart pounding, and made a decision.

  He stepped forward, slowly, hands visible, and placed his fish spear on the ground near the fire pit. A gift. A peace offering. Then he backed away, returned to the forest, and found a spot to wait and watch.

  If they come back, they'll see it. They'll know someone was here. Someone friendly. Someone who wants to talk.

  He settled against a tree, hidden but watching, and waited.

  ---

  They didn't come back that day.

  He waited until the light began to fade, then retrieved his spear—no sense leaving a good tool behind—and made his way back to his camp. The walk took longer in dusk; he moved carefully, watching for anything that might hunt at night.

  By the time he reached his rock overhang, full dark had fallen. He rebuilt his fire with practiced efficiency, ate more berries and nuts, and sat staring into the flames.

  Someone's out there. Someone alive. Someone who builds fires and uses tools and leaves footprints.

  The thought was terrifying and hopeful in equal measure.

  He thought about the hunting camp. The gift he'd left. The possibility that tomorrow, or the next day, or someday, he might meet another living person. Might speak to someone. Might not be alone.

  What if they're hostile? What if they attack on sight? What if—

  He stopped the spiral. He was a surgeon. He'd dealt with hostile patients, scared families, impossible situations. He'd stay cautious. He'd stay observant. He'd learn their language, their customs, their intentions before revealing himself fully.

  But he wouldn't hide forever. He couldn't. Alone, he might survive. But alone wasn't living.

  He looked up at the strange stars, thought of Claire and Emma and Ben, and made a promise.

  I'll find a way to live here. I'll find people. I'll build something. I don't know how, but I'll figure it out. That's what I do.

  The fire crackled. The stars wheeled. And somewhere in the darkness, other people—strangers in this strange world—slept by their own fires, unaware that a man from nowhere had left them a gift.