The morning after Juran's fever broke, Theron woke to find his fire already rebuilt.

  He stared at it for a long moment, confused. He hadn't done it. He'd collapsed into sleep exhausted, too tired to even think about morning preparations. But there it was—a healthy blaze, crackling warmly, with a stack of extra wood beside it.

  He looked around. The camp was just waking, the usual morning sounds beginning. Children's voices. Women calling to each other. The distant sound of someone grinding grain.

  No one nearby. No one watching.

  Someone did this, he thought. Someone came while I slept and built my fire.

  He didn't know who. Juran's mother, maybe. Or Dorn. Or someone else entirely, someone whose name he didn't yet know. But whoever it was, they'd done it quietly, without waking him, without expecting thanks.

  He sat by the fire, letting its warmth soak into him, and felt something shift in his chest.

  I'm not alone here anymore.

  ---

  He spent the morning organizing his supplies.

  The healing spot was growing more organized by the day. He'd arranged his herbs on a flat rock, sorted by use: feverbark for fever, sleepweed for rest, the aloe-like plant for wounds, a few others he was still testing. His bone knife sat beside them, sharp and ready. His spear leaned against the rock face. Extra hides were folded neatly, waiting to become bandages.

  Sora arrived midmorning, as she did every day now. She carried a small bundle—more berries, still warm from the sun—and deposited them on his supply rock without comment. Then she sat cross-legged on the ground and waited.

  Theron hid a smile. "You want to learn today?"

  She didn't understand the words, but she understood the tone. She nodded firmly.

  He showed her the herbs again, testing her memory. She identified feverbark correctly, sleepweed correctly, the aloe-like plant with a question mark in her eyes. He nodded—close enough. He showed her how to prepare a fever reduction tea, step by step. She watched with that intense focus, absorbing everything.

  By midday, she'd made her first tea entirely on her own. Theron tasted it—not bad. A little weak, but correct.

  "Good," he told her. "Sora good."

  She beamed. Then she pointed at herself, at the tea, at him, and said something that sounded like a question. Did I really do it right?

  He nodded. "Yes. Good."

  She grabbed his hand and squeezed it, hard, then ran off toward camp, shouting something over her shoulder. Probably going to tell everyone she'd made medicine.

  Theron watched her go, still smiling.

  ---

  The commotion started midafternoon.

  Shouting from the river. Not happy shouting—alarmed, urgent. Theron was on his feet before he consciously decided to move, running toward the sound with his medical kit—such as it was—gathered in his arms.

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  He reached the riverbank to find a crowd already gathered. People pushed and craned to see. Theron pushed through, using his shoulders the way he'd learned in crowded ERs, and emerged at the front.

  A man lay on the bank, half in the water, half out. His leg was a mess—a deep gash from knee to ankle, bleeding heavily, the kind of wound that came from sharp rock or maybe a fall. The water around him was pink with blood.

  The fisherman. Theron recognized him—one of the men who regularly worked this part of the river, setting traps, spearing fish. His name was something like "Ren" or "Renn." He was conscious, barely, his face gray with shock and blood loss.

  People milled around, helpless. Some pressed cloths to the wound, but they didn't know how to apply pressure correctly, didn't know how to stop the bleeding. The cloths were soaked through, useless.

  Theron knelt. "Move," he said, not caring if they understood. "Let me see."

  They moved. Maybe they understood the tone, maybe they just recognized him as the healer who'd saved Juran. Either way, space cleared.

  He assessed quickly. Deep laceration, probably hit an artery based on the bleeding pattern. Femoral? No, too low—saphenous, maybe. Still dangerous. Still potentially fatal if not controlled.

  He grabbed a clean hide strip from his kit—thank god he'd prepared—and applied direct pressure to the wound. Hard. The man screamed, thrashed. Theron held.

  "Pressure," he said to no one in particular. "Need to stop the bleeding. Someone—" He looked up, scanned the crowd. Dorn was there, limping toward the front. Good.

  "Dorn." Theron pointed at the wound, at his hand applying pressure. "You. Here. Press hard. Don't stop."

  Dorn understood. He knelt, put his hands where Theron's had been, and pressed. The fisherman screamed again, but Dorn held firm.

  Theron assessed further. The wound was deep—he could see muscle tissue, maybe bone. Dirty—river water, mud, debris. High risk of infection. But first, stop the bleeding. Then clean. Then close.

  He worked fast. More hide strips, wrapped around the leg above the wound—improvised tourniquet, just in case. Then he relieved Dorn, checked the bleeding—slower now, the pressure was working. Good.

  "Water," he said. "Clean water. Boiled, if you have it. Now."

  People scattered. Someone would understand. Someone would bring what he needed.

  While he waited, he kept pressure on the wound and talked to the fisherman. "You're going to be okay. I know it hurts. But you're going to be okay. I've seen worse. Guy came into my ER once, cut his leg on a piece of metal, you wouldn't believe the mess. He made it. You'll make it."

  The fisherman's eyes, wide with pain and fear, locked on Theron's face. He didn't understand the words, but he understood the calm. His breathing slowed slightly. His body relaxed a fraction.

  Good. Keep him calm. Keep him alive.

  ---

  The boiled water arrived—Juran's mother, of all people, carrying a steaming hide bucket. Theron nodded thanks and got to work.

  Cleaning the wound was brutal. The fisherman screamed, thrashed, had to be held down by two men. But Theron worked steadily, pouring water over the gash, picking out debris, checking for deeper damage. The artery—if that's what it was—seemed to have stopped bleeding. The pressure had worked. Now it was about preventing infection.

  He applied the aloe-like plant liberally, packing it into the wound. Then he bound it with clean hides, tight but not too tight, checking the man's foot for circulation. Warm. Pink. Good.

  He sat back, breathing hard, and looked at his work.

  The fisherman was pale, shocky, but alive. His eyes were closed now—exhaustion, maybe, or just relief that the pain had stopped. His chest rose and fell steadily.

  Theron looked at the crowd. They were staring at him. All of them. Silent. Watching.

  He didn't know what to say. So he just pointed at the fisherman, then at the wound, then made a gesture that meant he'll live.

  A murmur ran through the crowd. Then someone started talking—an older woman, pointing at Theron, at the fisherman, at the bandages. Others joined in. The word spread: he'd stopped the bleeding. He'd saved him.

  Theron sat there, covered in blood and river water, and let himself feel the moment.

  ---

  That night, the fisherman's family came to his spot.

  They brought food—more food than he could eat in a week. Roasted meat, dried fish, fresh berries, some kind of root vegetable he hadn't tried before. They brought a new hide, soft and warm, for his bed. They brought a small carved figure—a fish, crudely made but clearly intentional.

  The fisherman's wife—Theron learned her name was Lena—pressed the carving into his hands and said something long and fervent. He didn't understand the words, but he understood the meaning. Thank you. Thank you for my husband. Thank you for my children's father.

  He nodded, accepted the gifts, tried to express with his face what he couldn't with words. You're welcome. I'm glad I could help. He's going to be okay.

  After they left, he sat by his fire and looked at the pile of gifts. More than he needed. More than he deserved, maybe. But he understood. This was how they said thank you. This was how they showed gratitude.

  Dorn appeared, as he always did, and whistled at the pile. "Lena give much." He grinned. "She like Theron now."

  Theron laughed. "She likes that I saved her husband. There's a difference."

  Dorn didn't understand, but he laughed anyway. They sat together, eating some of the gifted food, watching the stars.

  "Ren wake up," Dorn said after a while. "He ask who save him. They say Theron. He say... thank you." Dorn made the hand-over-heart gesture. "He mean it."

  Theron nodded. "Good. He's going to be okay. The leg will heal. Might have a scar, but he'll walk."

  Dorn considered this. Then he pointed at Theron, at the camp, at the sky. "Theron. Ash Tooth now?"

  Theron didn't understand. "Ash Tooth?"

  Dorn pointed at the mountain in the distance—the one with the peak that looked like a broken tooth. "Ash Tooth. Tribe name. Ash Tooth people." He pointed at Theron. "Theron Ash Tooth?"

  Theron considered the question. Was he Ash Tooth now? He'd saved two of their people. He was learning their language. He sat at the edge of their fire every night, close enough to feel the warmth.

  "I don't know," he said honestly. "Maybe. Someday."

  Dorn nodded, accepting. Then he clapped Theron on the shoulder and limped back to camp, leaving Theron alone with his fire and his thoughts and his pile of gifts.

  Theron looked at the carved fish. At the hides. At the food. At the fire that someone had rebuilt for him that morning.

  Maybe someday isn't so far away.

  He lay back, stared at the stars, and slept better than he had in weeks.