Theron woke to sunlight in his eyes and the immediate, gut-clenching realization that he'd fallen asleep on watch.

  He jerked upright, heart pounding, and looked for Dorn. The man lay where he'd left him, still unconscious, still breathing. Theron scrambled to his side, checked his pulse—steady, stronger than last night—and his temperature—warm but not burning. The wound dressing was clean, no fresh blood or pus seeping through.

  Alive. Still alive.

  He sat back, letting out a long breath. He'd been asleep for—he looked at the sun—maybe three hours. Not ideal, but not disastrous. Dorn had survived the night. That was what mattered.

  He rebuilt the fire—it had burned low but not out—and set more water to heat. Then he carefully peeled back the dressing to examine the wound.

  Better. Definitely better. The redness had faded further, the swelling was down, and the edges were knitting together with that pink, healthy look of granulation tissue. The infection was still there—he could see a thin line of red radiating from one edge—but it was retreating, not advancing.

  You're fighting, Dorn. Keep fighting.

  He cleaned the wound again with boiled water, gently this day, not the aggressive debridement of yesterday. He applied more of the aloe-like plant—he'd need to find more soon; his supply was running low—and bound it with fresh hides.

  Throughout the process, Dorn stirred but didn't wake. His body twitched when the cool water hit, a groan escaped his throat, but his eyes stayed closed.

  Probably better that way. Let your body heal. Rest is the best medicine I can give you right now.

  ---

  Midmorning, Dorn's fever spiked.

  Theron noticed it first in the man's face—a flush creeping across his cheeks, sweat beading on his forehead. He checked his temperature with the back of his hand: hot. Too hot. He checked the wound: the red line had lengthened, and the skin around it was warm.

  Infection's making a comeback. Body's fighting back.

  He worked fast. More cool water on a hide strip, pressed to Dorn's forehead, his chest, his arms. Evaporative cooling—primitive but effective. He forced water between Dorn's lips, little by little, making him swallow. He checked the wound again, cleaned it again, applied more poultice.

  Dorn thrashed, moaned, muttered words Theron couldn't understand. His eyes opened once—wild, unfocused, seeing nothing—then closed again.

  "Easy, easy." Theron kept his voice calm, the same voice he'd used on a thousand scared patients in the ER. "You're okay. Your body's fighting. That's good. That means you're alive. Just let it fight. I'll handle the rest."

  He worked through the afternoon, a cycle of cooling and cleaning and forcing water. The sun moved across the sky. The fire crackled. Dorn fought.

  And slowly, gradually, the fever broke.

  Theron noticed it first in the man's breathing—slower, deeper, less labored. Then in his skin—cooler to the touch, the flush fading. He checked the wound: the red line had stopped advancing. It was still there, still dangerous, but it wasn't winning anymore.

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  You did it. You crazy bastard, you did it.

  Theron sat back, exhausted, and watched Dorn sleep. Real sleep now, not the restless thrashing of fever. Healing sleep.

  He let himself feel the relief for a moment. Then he stood, gathered more firewood, and prepared for another night.

  ---

  Dorn woke at dusk.

  Theron was across the fire, chewing on nuts—his first food all day, he realized—when he heard a sound. Not a groan this time. A word. Hoarse, cracked, but deliberate.

  He looked up. Dorn's eyes were open. Focused. Looking directly at him.

  For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then Dorn's hand lifted weakly, touched his bandaged stomach, and his face twisted into an expression Theron couldn't read.

  "Dorn," Theron said quietly, pointing at him. Then at himself. "Theron."

  Dorn's cracked lips moved. "Theh-ron." He tried again, slower. "Theron."

  Better. Closer.

  Theron pointed at the wound, then made a healing gesture. "Hurt. I help. Better now."

  Dorn looked at the bandages, at the fire, at Theron. His eyes were confused but not scared. Curious. Wondering. He said something in his language—a question, probably. Theron caught the rising inflection at the end.

  "I don't understand," Theron said, spreading his hands. "I don't speak your language. But I'm trying to help. Okay? Just... rest."

  He made a resting gesture—hands together against his cheek, eyes closed. Universal. Dorn understood. He nodded weakly, then his eyes drifted closed again.

  But this time, when he slept, his hand rested loosely on the ground near Theron's. Not touching. Just... there. Close.

  Theron looked at that hand, at the calluses and scars, at the strong fingers now limp with exhaustion. A hunter's hand. A fighter's hand. A hand that had killed, probably, and a hand that now rested near his in unconscious trust.

  You're going to make it, he thought. And when you do, maybe you can tell me about this world. Maybe you can help me understand.

  He added wood to the fire and settled in for another night.

  ---

  Morning came clear and cold.

  Frost on the grass—the first he'd seen. Autumn was coming. He needed to think about winter, about better shelter, about food storage. But first, he needed to make sure Dorn survived.

  He checked the wound. Better again. The red line was almost gone, the swelling down, the edges knitting cleanly. The infection was beaten—for now. He cleaned it, reapplied poultice, bound it fresh.

  Dorn woke during the process. This time, he didn't speak, just watched. Watched Theron's hands, so careful, so gentle. Watched the way he examined the wound, the way he applied the herbs, the way he bound it with clean strips.

  When Theron finished, Dorn said something. Short. Two words, maybe. An expression on his face that looked like gratitude but was something deeper. Something Theron didn't have a word for.

  Theron shrugged, smiled. "You're welcome. I don't know if that's what you said, but you're welcome."

  Dorn almost smiled. Almost. His cracked lips twitched.

  Then he pointed at his mouth, then at the fire, then at his stomach—carefully, avoiding the wound. Food. He was asking for food.

  Theron laughed. Actual laughter, surprised out of him. "Yeah. Yeah, you need to eat. Let me see what I can do."

  He had nuts, soft enough for a healing man to chew. He had fish, but Dorn probably shouldn't have solid food yet—not with a gut wound. Broth. He needed broth.

  He set water to boil, added some of the nuts to soften them, and created a kind of thin gruel. Not nutritious by his world's standards, but calories. Liquid. Something a damaged digestive system might handle.

  He helped Dorn sit up slightly—the man gritted his teeth against the pain—and held the stone bowl to his lips. Dorn drank slowly, weakly, but he drank. Half the bowl, then he slumped back, exhausted by the effort.

  But his eyes, when they closed, were peaceful.

  Theron sat by the fire, watching him sleep, and felt something he hadn't felt since arriving in this world.

  Purpose.

  He was a healer again. Not a trauma surgeon with an OR and a team and modern equipment. Just a man with his hands and his knowledge and his will to help. But that was enough. That was always enough.

  He looked at Dorn, at the man he'd saved, and thought of all the patients he'd saved in another life. All the lives he'd touched. All the families he'd given back their loved ones.

  I can do this here. I can be that again.

  He didn't know how. Didn't know if this tribe would accept him, if they'd let him heal, if they'd trust a stranger. But he knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that this was what he was meant to do. Here, as there.

  He was a healer. That didn't change just because the world did.

  ---

  That afternoon, Dorn woke again and tried to talk.

  Not just words—conversation. He pointed at things, said their names, waited for Theron to repeat them. Fire. Water. Tree. Stone. Hand. Wound. Each word, repeated until Theron's pronunciation satisfied him.

  It was exhausting for Dorn—Theron could see him flagging after each word—but he kept going. Kept teaching. Kept pushing.

  Theron understood why. Dorn was grateful. Dorn wanted to communicate. Dorn wanted to know who this strange man was, where he came from, why he'd helped.

  And Theron wanted to know the same things about Dorn.

  By evening, Theron had maybe twenty words. Fire. Water. Tree. Stone. Hand. Foot. Eye. Mouth. Good. Bad. Hurt. Help. Dorn. Theron. Yes. No. Eat. Sleep. Stay.

  Not enough for conversation. But enough for basics. Enough to say "Dorn hurt" and "Theron help" and "Dorn sleep now."

  When Dorn finally slept that night, his face was peaceful. Less confused. Less scared.

  Theron sat by the fire, practicing his new words quietly. "Fire. Water. Tree. Dorn. Theron. Good. Good."

  The words felt strange in his mouth, foreign and familiar at once. But they were a start. A bridge.

  He looked at the stars—still wrong, still strange—and thought of his family. Emma. Ben. Claire. He missed them with an ache that never fully went away. But it was softer now. Less like a wound and more like a scar.

  I'm okay, he told them, wherever they were. I'm alive. I'm helping someone. I'm going to be okay.

  The fire crackled. The stars wheeled. And Theron, for the first time since arriving, felt like he might actually belong here.