Three days at the edge of the tribe.

  Theron learned the rhythm of it quickly. Dawn came gray and cold—autumn was definitely here now, the nights crisp, the mornings frost-touched. He woke, rebuilt his fire from the embers he'd guarded all night, and sat watching the camp come alive.

  First the children. They always appeared first, bursting from hide tents like pups from a den, chasing each other, laughing, shouting. They played games he didn't recognize—tag-like things, but with rules that involved sticks and stones and elaborate hand gestures. They noticed him, always. Stared from a distance. Whispered to each other. Then ran away when he looked back.

  Then the women. They emerged to tend the central fire, to fetch water from the spring, to begin the day's work of processing hides and drying meat and preparing food. They talked constantly—a river of language Theron couldn't follow but loved to hear. Their voices rose and fell in patterns that felt ancient, musical, right.

  Then the men. They gathered in small groups, checked their weapons, discussed the day's hunt. Some left in small parties, spears ready, heading into the forest or across the grasslands. Others stayed—the older ones, the injured, the ones teaching younger hunters. Korr was often among these, sitting by the central fire, observing, advising, being chief.

  And through it all, Dorn visited.

  Every day, multiple times a day, Dorn limped over to Theron's edge-spot. He brought food—roasted meat, dried fish, some kind of grain mush that was bland but filling. He brought news, or tried to—pointing at people, naming them, acting out whatever had happened that morning. He brought language lessons, patient and persistent, correcting Theron's pronunciation with exaggerated faces that made them both laugh.

  "Sit," Dorn said, pointing at the ground.

  "Sit," Theron repeated.

  "Good." Dorn nodded approvingly. Then he pointed at himself. "Dorn sit." He sat. Then at Theron. "Theron sit."

  Theron sat. "Theron sit. Good."

  Dorn beamed. Then he pointed at the fire. "Fire."

  "Fire."

  "Fire hot." Dorn waved his hand over the flames, then pulled it back quickly, making a pained face. "Hot. Bad."

  Theron laughed. "Fire hot. Bad. Yes."

  They went through dozens of words this way, day after day. Body parts. Actions. Objects. Simple concepts. Theron's brain soaked them up, categorized them, built connections. He'd always been good with languages—picked up enough Spanish in med school to talk to patients, enough medical terminology to sound smart—but this was different. This was building a bridge from nothing.

  By the third day, he could say simple things. "Dorn eat?" "Theron water." "Fire good." Not elegant, but functional. Dorn seemed impressed.

  "You learn fast," Dorn said—or something like it. The words were "Theron head catch quick," accompanied by a spinning gesture near his temple.

  Theron shrugged. "Good teacher."

  Dorn didn't understand the words, but he understood the tone. He grinned, clapped Theron on the shoulder, and limped back to the main camp for the night.

  ---

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  The children fascinated him.

  Not all of them—most kept their distance, staring from behind huts or peeking around trees. But one little girl was different.

  She was small, maybe eight or nine, with dark hair and quick eyes that missed nothing. She stared at Theron constantly. Not the fearful staring of the other children, the kind that led to quick retreats. This was studying. Assessing. Curious.

  On the second day, she got caught.

  She'd been hiding behind a large rock near Theron's spot, watching him arrange his supplies. He pretended not to notice, going about his business, but he watched her from the corner of his eye. She crept closer. Then closer. Then her foot slipped on loose gravel, and she tumbled into full view.

  She froze, eyes wide, caught.

  Theron looked at her. She looked at him. Neither moved.

  Then Theron smiled. Not a big smile—just a small one, the kind he used on scared patients in the ER. "Hello," he said softly.

  The girl stared. Then, slowly, her face relaxed. She didn't smile back, but she didn't run either.

  They looked at each other for a long moment. Then a woman's voice called from the camp—her mother, probably—and the girl bolted, disappearing among the huts.

  Theron watched her go, still smiling.

  ---

  On the third day, she came back.

  This time she didn't hide. She walked straight to the edge of his spot—not close, but closer than before—and stood there, arms crossed, studying him with those too-wise eyes.

  Theron went about his business. He was working on his spear, reshaping the point with a stone, and he let her watch. After a while, he glanced up and caught her eye.

  "You," he said, pointing at her. Then he pointed at himself. "Theron."

  She considered this. Then, slowly, she pointed at herself and said something. A name. Sora? Sora-something. He couldn't quite catch it.

  "Sora?" he tried.

  Her eyes widened. Then she nodded, almost proudly. "Sora." She pointed at him. "Theh-ron."

  Close enough.

  They stared at each other again. Then Sora pointed at his spear, then at herself, then made a questioning face. Can I see?

  Theron held it out.

  She approached carefully, step by step, ready to run. When she reached him, she took the spear and examined it with the intensity of a scholar studying an ancient text. She turned it over, felt the point, tested the binding. Then she looked at him and said something—a question, probably about how he'd made it.

  Theron showed her. He mimed finding the stone, striking it, shaping the edge. He mimed cutting the branch, binding it with strips of hide. She watched, absorbed, asking questions with her eyes and occasional pointing.

  When he finished, she handed the spear back and nodded approvingly. Then she pointed at herself, at the spear, at him, and made a gesture that clearly meant teach me.

  Theron laughed. "Maybe. When you're older."

  She didn't understand the words, but she understood the tone. She grinned—a gap-toothed grin that transformed her serious face—and ran back to camp, shouting something over her shoulder.

  Dorn, arriving with food, passed her on the path. He looked at Theron, confused. "Sora?"

  Theron nodded. "Sora. Good kid."

  Dorn's face did something complicated—surprise, then amusement, then something that might have been approval. He said something long, gesturing at Sora's retreating form, then at Theron, then making a circling gesture near his heart.

  Theron didn't understand the words. But he understood the meaning: She likes you. That's unusual.

  He shrugged. "I like kids. I had two of my own."

  Dorn caught the past tense. His face softened, and he patted Theron's arm. Then he sat down and started unpacking the food, changing the subject in that universal way people have when they sense sadness they can't address.

  They ate together, watching the sun set over the camp.

  ---

  That night, Theron sat by his fire and thought about his children.

  Emma. Her first word had been "dada." He'd cried. Claire had laughed at him, but she'd cried too. He remembered Emma's first day of school, how she'd clutched his hand and refused to let go. He remembered her graduation from high school, how she'd waved at him from the stage, so grown up, so beautiful.

  Ben. Learning to ride a bike, falling, getting up, falling again. The look of pure joy on his face when he finally stayed upright. The terrible guitar playing that filled the house with noise and warmth. The way he'd hug Theron goodbye in the morning, even as a teenager, even when his friends were watching.

  I wonder if they're okay. I wonder if Claire's okay.

  He knew they were. Had to be. They were strong, his family. They'd survive. They'd grieve and heal and keep living. That's what people did.

  And he'd keep living here. Keep learning. Keep building.

  He looked at the camp, quiet now in the evening, fires burning low, families gathered in their huts. He could hear the murmur of voices, occasional laughter, a baby crying briefly before being soothed.

  I'm on the edge, he thought. But the edge is closer than alone.

  He added wood to his fire, wrapped himself in the spare hide Dorn had brought him, and slept.

  ---

  The next morning, Sora was back.

  She arrived at dawn, carrying a small bundle wrapped in leaves. She marched up to Theron's spot—no hesitation this time—and thrust the bundle at him.

  He unwrapped it. Berries. Fresh, ripe, carefully gathered.

  "Thank you," he said, touched. "Sora thank you."

  She nodded briskly, then sat down beside him like she owned the place. Like she'd always sat there. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

  Theron hid a smile. "You're staying?"

  She didn't understand, but she understood the question in his tone. She nodded firmly and pointed at his supplies, then at herself. Teach me.

  He laughed. "Okay. Fine. But you have to work."

  He showed her his herbs—the ones he'd identified, the ones he was still testing. He showed her how to sort them, how to store them, how to recognize them. She watched with that same intense focus, asking questions with her eyes, learning visibly.

  By midday, she could identify three plants correctly. By evening, she'd helped him reorganize his entire supply, and she'd only eaten two of the experimental berries.

  Dorn came by at dusk, saw them working together, and laughed so hard he had to sit down.

  "Sora," he said, pointing at her, then at Theron, then making a gesture that clearly meant she's your problem now.

  Theron shrugged. "She's a good helper."

  Dorn shook his head, still laughing, and limped back to camp.

  Sora ignored him completely. She was too busy learning.