***Rainah***
The wound on Sawyer’s shoulder was a jagged, angry thing, the kind of injury that turned a man into a liability. Every time he moved, a fresh bloom of dark, arterial blood welled up, staining the fabric of his coat and the snow beneath him. He was losing strength, his breathing becoming shallow and irregular, his skin taking on the waxy, translucent pallor of someone who had seen the edge of the abyss and was starting to slide over.
I looked at him, then at the forest that stretched out in every direction—a silent, uncaring witness to our struggle. We were miles from his cabin, and even if we could get him there, I didn't know if he had the supplies to treat a wound this deep.
"You're going to die if we stay out here," I said, my voice tight.
He looked up at me, his eyes
