"Let me see."
"It's fine."
"You just told me to let you look at a scar I've had for ten years. Let me see your hand, girl."
Fair point. I hold it out. He takes it—grip careful,calloused fingers turning my palm toward the light—and pulls a thin splinter out of the heel of my thumb with his fingernails.
"You're welcome." He drops my hand.
"I would've gotten it eventually."
"When it's infected."
"That's not—" It's exactly what would've happened. "Fine. Thank you."
The main frame is standing by midmorning. Solid. Posts deep enough nothing's digging under, and the gate swings smooth on the hinges I found in my bag exactly where I thought they'd be, under the dried herbs.
"Chicken wire section next, but I need to—"
Shouting.
Not animal-related.
Different.
Wolves running toward the tree line. Voices raised, urgent, overlapping. Every head turning at once.
I drop my tools and go.
The crowd is thick by the time I push through but I'm small and quick and people move without thinking about it.
Three wolves emerging from the trees. Two supporting the third—barely conscious, blood soaking through his shirt on the left side, dragging his feet. Behind them, a woman staggering, arm pressed against her ribs, blood between her fingers. And behind her—
A human. Male. Hands bound. Face bloody. Being dragged by rope around his wrists.
Three wounded. Unconscious one is worst—blood volume, breathing. Woman with the ribs is second. The third is walking so he waits. The human is bleeding but bound so not my problem yet, and my kit is by the coop—left boot still rubbing, ignore it—leather bag, brown, next to the gate—
"Get him down. Flat on his back. Now."
They obey. He hits the ground and my hands are on him—side, deep gash, bleeding heavy but not spurting. No artery. His breathing though. Wet. Rattling.
"Broken ribs. At least two." Ear to his chest. Rattling louder on the left. "Might've punctured something. Pressure on this wound—hard, both hands—and someone get me my kit. Leather bag by the coop."
"I'll get it." Rhen, already running.
A young woman drops beside me—light hair, freckled, I've seen her hauling water near the stream. "I can help."
"Pressure here." I guide her hands to the gash. "Firm. Don't let up even if he screams."
"How firm?"
"As firm as you can manage. Pretend you're kneading bread that owes you coin."
She presses. He groans.
"Stay down. Don't move."
"Arrow," he manages. "Got... arrow..."
