Dorn woke properly on the fourth day.

  Theron knew it the moment it happened. Not the half-conscious muttering of fever dreams, not the brief flickers of awareness that came and went with the tide of infection. This was different. This was present.

  The man's eyes opened and stayed open. They tracked—followed Theron's movements as he added wood to the fire, registered the surroundings, took in the rock overhang and the stack of supplies and the stream in the distance. Then they settled on Theron himself, and stayed there.

  For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

  Theron had seen this look before, in a thousand recovery rooms. The confusion of waking somewhere unfamiliar. The gradual piecing together of memories. The dawning realization that you were alive when you should have been dead.

  He waited. Let Dorn process.

  Finally, Dorn's hand lifted—slowly, weakly—and touched his bandaged stomach. His fingers explored the edges of the dressing, felt the bulk of the poultice beneath, traced the line where hide strips bound the wound. His face shifted through emotions Theron couldn't quite read. Confusion. Wonder. Something that might have been fear, but faded quickly.

  Then he looked at Theron again, and this time his eyes were different. Focused. Direct. Asking a question without words.

  Theron pointed at himself. "Theron." Then at Dorn. "Dorn."

  Dorn's lips moved. "Theron." Better now. Clearer. He'd been practicing, even unconscious.

  Then Dorn pointed at his wound, made a questioning face, and said something in his language. A string of words, too fast for Theron to catch anything except maybe "what" and "you."

  Theron understood the question anyway.

  He knelt beside Dorn and mimed the whole process. Cleaning—pouring water, wiping. Cutting—a slicing motion with his finger. Sewing—pulling thread through skin. Binding—wrapping, tying. Then he pointed at Dorn, made a sleeping gesture, and pointed at the sky, indicating days passing.

  Dorn watched intently, following each motion. When Theron finished, Dorn looked at his wound again, then back at Theron, and his face did something complicated. Gratitude, yes. But also something else. Awe, maybe. The look of a man who knew he'd been dead and had somehow come back.

  He spoke again. Slower this time, one word at a time, pointing at Theron as he did. "You. Healer."

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  Theron didn't know the word, but he understood the meaning. He nodded. "Yes. Healer. I heal."

  Dorn repeated the word. "Heal-er." Then he pointed at himself. "Dorn." Then at Theron again. "Healer." Then he made a gesture that transcended language—hand over his heart, then reaching toward Theron, an offering of something. Gratitude. Debt. Friendship.

  Theron put his own hand over his heart and nodded. "I understand. You're welcome."

  ---

  That afternoon, Dorn insisted on sitting up.

  Theron tried to stop him—gestured firmly, pushed him back down, made angry faces. Dorn ignored him completely. With agonizing slowness, using his elbows and then his hands, he pushed himself into a sitting position against the rock wall. By the time he was upright, his face was gray with effort and sweat beaded on his forehead.

  But he was sitting. And he was grinning.

  Theron threw his hands up. "Fine. You win. Stubborn patient. I should have known."

  Dorn didn't understand the words, but he understood the tone. His grin widened, revealing teeth with one missing on the bottom. He said something that sounded suspiciously like a joke—Theron caught a rising inflection at the end, the kind that invited laughter.

  Theron laughed. Just because. It felt good.

  He brought Dorn water, which the man drank greedily. Then more of the nut gruel, which Dorn ate with more enthusiasm than the bland concoction deserved. Between bites, he kept talking—pointing at things, naming them, waiting for Theron to repeat.

  "Fire." Dorn pointed.

  "Fire," Theron repeated.

  "Water." Pointed at the stream.

  "Water."

  "Tree." Pointed at the nearest oak.

  "Tree."

  "Good." Dorn nodded approvingly. Then he pointed at Theron. "Theron. Good healer."

  Theron felt his face warm. "Thanks. You're not so bad yourself. For a stubborn patient."

  Dorn didn't understand, but he seemed to get that it was a compliment. He nodded regally, like a king accepting praise, and went back to his gruel.

  ---

  By evening, Dorn was exhausted but triumphant. He'd added at least thirty words to their shared vocabulary, had eaten two bowls of gruel, and had successfully communicated that yes, he needed to relieve himself, and no, he would not do it lying down like an infant.

  Theron helped him hobble to a nearby bush, averting his eyes but staying close in case the man collapsed. Dorn managed, just barely, and Theron helped him back to the fire.

  "You're going to kill yourself," Theron muttered. "First day sitting up and you're already taking walks."

  Dorn, who understood exactly none of this, patted Theron's arm reassuringly and said something that probably meant "I'm fine, stop worrying."

  Theron sighed. "You're going to be a terrible patient. I can already tell."

  ---

  That night, they shared a meal in companionable silence.

  Well, Dorn ate gruel and Theron ate fish and nuts, but they ate together, by the same fire, and that was what mattered. Dorn watched Theron cook the fish—watched the methodical way he cleaned it, spitted it, held it over the flames—and made approving noises.

  When Theron offered him a piece, Dorn shook his head and pointed at his stomach. Wound. Not ready. He knew his own limits, apparently.

  Good, Theron thought. A patient with some sense. Mostly.

  After eating, they sat by the fire and Dorn talked. Not to communicate anything specific—just to talk, to fill the silence with human voice. He told stories, apparently—Theron caught names, places, words like "hunt" and "tribe" and "woman." He gestured expansively, acted out parts, made faces.

  Theron didn't understand a word. But he understood the meaning: I'm alive. I'm grateful. I'm going to tell you about my life, and someday you'll understand.

  He nodded along, laughed when Dorn's tone suggested humor, made sympathetic faces when Dorn's voice grew serious. It was like watching a one-man play in a language he didn't speak. And somehow, it was wonderful.

  When Dorn finally ran out of steam, exhausted by his own performance, he looked at Theron with those direct eyes and said something soft. Quiet. A single word, maybe two.

  Theron didn't know what it meant. But he knew what it felt like.

  Friend.

  He nodded. "Friend," he agreed. "We're friends now, I guess. That's how it works. You save someone's life, you become friends. It's the rule."

  Dorn didn't understand. But he smiled, closed his eyes, and slept.

  Theron sat by the fire, watching him, and thought about his old life. His friends at the hospital—the nurses he'd brought donuts for, the other surgeons he'd traded shifts with, the residents he'd trained. He wondered if they'd held a memorial for him. If they'd told stories, laughed and cried, remembered the good times.

  I hope so, he thought. I hope someone remembered me.

  And then, looking at Dorn's sleeping face, he thought: Someone will. Here. Someone will remember me here.

  It wasn't the same. It would never be the same. But it was something. It was enough.