Theron woke before dawn.

  Not because he wanted to—his body still ached from days of hard labor and harder ground—but because his mind wouldn't stop racing. The hunting camp. The footprint. The gift he'd left. Had they found it? Had they understood it as a gift, or as a threat? Would they come looking for him?

  He rebuilt the fire by feel now, the motions already habitual. Sticks in the right order, embers blown carefully, flames fed gradually. By the time the sun edged over the ridge, he had a respectable fire going and a small pile of nuts roasting on a flat stone near the edge.

  He ate slowly, deliberately, forcing himself to be patient. The camp would still be there when he finished. The people—if they'd returned—would still be there. Rushing wouldn't help.

  You're stalling, he told himself. You're scared.

  He was. The thought of meeting other humans in this strange world terrified him more than the weird storm, more than the frozen bodies, more than anything else he'd faced. Because humans could help him. And humans could kill him. And he had no way of knowing which until it was too late.

  But he couldn't stay alone forever. Alone, he'd survive, maybe. But alone wasn't living.

  He finished his nuts, drank from the stream, and started walking.

  ---

  The forest was different in the early morning. Quieter. The night creatures had retreated, and the day creatures hadn't fully emerged. Mist hung between the trees, softening shapes and muting sounds. His footsteps on the damp ground seemed unnaturally loud.

  He followed the landmarks from yesterday. The dead tree with the split trunk. The rock formation like a sleeping animal. The stream crossing. Each one brought him closer to the hunting camp, and each step made his heart beat faster.

  By the time he reached the edge of the clearing, his hands were shaking.

  He stopped behind a large oak, peered around it carefully, and looked.

  The camp was empty.

  No people. No movement. But—

  He stepped closer, eyes scanning. The fire pit was cold now, but someone had been here since yesterday. The hides that had been spread to dry were gone. The pile of bones had been cleaned up. And in the exact spot where he'd left his fish spear, there was something new.

  A pile of nuts. And beside them, a knife.

  Theron approached slowly, cautiously, as if the gifts might explode. He knelt by the fire pit and examined them.

  The nuts were the same kind he'd found yesterday—hard-shelled, meaty, edible. A generous pile, enough for several meals. The knife was made of bone, sharpened to an edge, wrapped at the handle with dried sinew. Simple, functional, and clearly made by human hands.

  They understood. They found my gift, and they left one in return.

  He picked up the knife, tested its weight. It fit his palm perfectly. The edge was sharp—not surgical steel sharp, but sharp enough to cut hide, maybe even meat. He ran his thumb along the blade carefully and felt it catch on his skin.

  They gave me a knife. They could have given me a spear through the chest. But they gave me a knife.

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  His eyes prickled. He blinked rapidly, embarrassed by the reaction even though no one was watching. It was just a knife. Just some nuts. But it was also proof that someone out there wanted to communicate, not kill. Proof that he wasn't alone in a way that mattered.

  He sat by the cold fire pit for a long moment, holding the knife, letting himself feel the hope.

  Then he stood, gathered his own gift to leave in return. More fish—he'd caught two more yesterday at the pool, had them wrapped in leaves. He placed them neatly by the fire pit, where they'd be visible. Then he added something else: a small pouch made from a leaf, containing some of the aloe-like plant he'd found. He didn't know if they'd recognize it, but maybe. Maybe they had uses for it too.

  He backed away, returned to the forest edge, and settled in to wait and watch again.

  ---

  He waited all morning.

  The sun climbed higher. The mist burned off. Birds began calling—normal birds, or at least birds that sounded normal. Squirrel-like creatures chattered in the trees. Theron stayed hidden behind his oak, patient as he'd learned to be in years of surgery, waiting for the right moment that might never come.

  Around midday, he heard them.

  Voices. Distant at first, then closer. Speaking a language he didn't recognize—harsh consonants, flowing vowels, nothing like English or the Spanish he'd picked up in med school. Two voices, maybe three. Male. Talking normally, not shouting, not whispering. They weren't trying to hide.

  Theron's heart hammered. He pressed himself against the tree, made himself small, and watched.

  Three men emerged from the forest on the far side of the clearing.

  They were human. That was his first thought, and it was absurdly relieving. Of course they were human—the footprints were human, the tools were human. But after the frozen bodies and the weird storm and the glass-eyed bird, he'd started to wonder if anything in this world was normal.

  They looked... ordinary. That was his second thought. Not cavemen from a documentary, not savage warriors. Just people. They wore leather clothing—tunics, leggings, boots made of hide. They carried spears—better made than his, with stone points and sturdy shafts. They had dark hair, dark eyes, skin tanned from sun.

  One of them—tall, with a scar running down his cheek—walked straight to the fire pit and stopped.

  He'd seen the fish.

  The man said something sharp to the others. They gathered around, looking at the gift. One knelt, picked up a fish, examined it. Another scanned the tree line—Theron ducked back slightly, held his breath.

  The scarred man spoke again, longer this time, gesturing at the fish and then at the forest. His voice sounded... not angry. Curious. Wondering.

  They talked among themselves for several minutes. Theron couldn't understand a word, but he watched their body language. Pointing. Shrugging. One of them—younger, with a missing ear—made a joke of some kind, and the others laughed. The tension broke.

  They accepted the gift. They weren't hunting for him. They weren't afraid.

  The scarred man gathered the fish carefully, wrapped them in a hide, and said something that sounded like a decision. The others nodded. They gathered their own gear, checked the camp, and then—to Theron's disappointment—headed back into the forest the way they'd come.

  They were leaving.

  He watched them go, fighting the urge to call out, to reveal himself, to run after them and beg them to take him with them. But caution held him back. He'd made contact. They'd responded. That was enough for one day. More than enough.

  He waited until their voices faded completely, then waited another hour to be sure. Only then did he emerge from hiding and walk to the fire pit.

  They'd left nothing new. But they'd taken his fish. They'd accepted his gift. That was communication. That was progress.

  He picked up the bone knife again—his knife now, apparently—and turned it over in his hands. They'd given him this. A gift for a gift. A message: We see you. We accept your offering. We are willing to trade.

  He smiled, alone in the empty clearing, and it felt like the first real smile since he'd arrived in this world.

  ---

  That afternoon, he explored the hunting camp more thoroughly.

  Now that he knew the people weren't hostile—or at least weren't immediately hostile—he felt comfortable examining their belongings. Not taking, just looking. Learning.

  Their tools were well-made. The stone points on their spears were knapped with skill he couldn't match. The bone needle he'd seen yesterday was fine and sharp, with an eye big enough for sinew thread. The hides they'd left to dry were deer-like, but wrong—the fur was too thick, the pattern unfamiliar.

  He found the remains of their fire and examined it. They'd used the same basic technique he had—small sticks, larger sticks, a central pile of tinder. Universal, apparently. He found charred bones from their meals, scraps of hide they'd discarded, a broken spear point they'd left behind.

  He kept the broken point. Maybe he could learn from it. Maybe he could figure out how they made such sharp edges.

  As the afternoon wore on, he made a decision. He'd come back tomorrow. Leave another gift. Maybe leave a different kind of gift—something that showed he was friendly, that he wanted to meet them, not just trade from a distance. A drawing? A carving? He'd think of something.

  For now, he had a knife. He had nuts. He had proof that he wasn't alone.

  He walked back to his camp with a lighter step than he'd had in days.

  ---

  That evening, he sat by his fire and examined his new possessions.

  The bone knife was remarkable, really. Someone had taken a piece of bone—deer? something else?—and shaped it carefully, patiently, into a tool that fit a human hand. The edge was ground smooth, not flaked like stone, but sharp enough to cut. The sinew wrapping was tight and secure.

  Someone made this. Someone sat by a fire and shaped bone into a knife, the way my grandfather taught me to whittle, the way surgeons learn to hold scalpels. Someone with skill and patience and time.

  He thought about the three men he'd seen. The scarred leader. The younger one with the missing ear who'd made the joke. The third one, quiet and observant. They had names, probably. Families. Stories. Lives as real and complicated as his own.

  They're people. Just people.

  The thought was obvious, but it settled something in him. These weren't savages or monsters. They were people, trying to survive in a world that included impossible storms and frozen bodies and who knew what else. Just like him.

  He ate some of the gifted nuts—they were good, richer than the ones he'd found—and made a plan.

  Tomorrow, he'd go back. Leave another gift. Maybe something that showed more of who he was. He had the aloe-like plant—they hadn't taken it, maybe didn't recognize it. He'd leave more fish. He'd leave a small carving, if he could figure out how to make one. Something personal. Something that said I want to meet you.

  And maybe, eventually, they'd let him.

  He lay back, stared at the stars, and for the first time since arriving, he didn't feel completely alone.