Ten minutes ago, our team was setting up the last folding table of the free clinic, handing out vitamins and wound care to families who'd walked two hours to reach us. Then the first gunshot cracked through the trees and every instinct I had screamed at me to run. I didn't. I grabbed my bag instead, because somewhere under the panic, a small stubborn voice reminded me that someone out there might need help more than I needed to feel safe. "Hold still," I snap, pressing both hands over the gash in his side. He's twice my size, built like something out of a nightmare, and bleeding out on the forest floor like it's nothing to him. Gunfire cracked through these trees ten minutes ago. I still don't know who was shooting, or at what, only that our medical team scattered like startled birds and I ended up here, alone, kneeling over a stranger in the dirt because some part of me refused to just keep running. "You should run," he says. His voice is rough, low, like gravel dragged over silk. "Whoever did this to me is still out there." "Then I guess we're both idiots." I rip a strip of fabric from my sleeve and tie it tight around the wound. My hands are shaking, but I don't stop. I press two fingers to his throat, counting his pulse the way I've done a hundred times in the ER, except this time my own heart is racing just as hard.