I hesitate at his frozen pants, then make a professional decision: they need to come off.
I unzip and peel the icy fabric down.
Yup.Definitelymale. And what a male, I think, rather unprofessionally.
I refocus, remove the pants. No tail—notin the back, anyway. I’m relieved to find no lower-body injuries. I finish drying him off and wrap him in a survival blanket. Then I gently towel-dry his long, silky dark hair.
Once he’s more or less dry, I check again—and it’s clear he’s suffering from hypoxia. I may not trust all the readings, but that wheezing noise isn’t right. Good thing he crashed in front ofme, a doctor!
I grab a small tank of oxygen-enriched air from the med cabinet and strap the mask to his face. After a while, his breathing steadies—but it’s still not great.
I curl up on the couch with a cup of tea, flipping through medical books on hypoxia, eyes still on my patient. I can’t decide if I should be relieved he’s stable—or worried.
Hypoxia requires oxygen therapy—which I’ve started. But that’s temporary, and I’m totally out of my depth.
This guy’s clearly from another planet.
Yeah, I know—thank you, Captain Obvious.
So, as I was saying: the stranger’s an alien. Avery attractivealien, if I may say so. Let’s assume the oxygen level he’s used to is higher than what we have here. According to archives, the first Humans on Mars experienced similar trouble—they needed a week to acclimate to the thin atmosphere.
So I’ll treat him the same way: proper hydration, iron-rich food to boost red blood cell production.
Hydration? Easy. Feeding him? That’s trickier.
And where the hell am I going tohidehim?
Kiran’s going to have a heart attack if he finds this guy in my house!
My thoughts spiral nonstop. There’s the medical side—like how to get more oxygen—and the practical side—like where toputhim. And the bigger question:Who is he? If he’s aligned with the Regent, and his condition worsens, will the Palace blameme?
Exhausted and overwhelmed, I eventually fall into a restless sleep.
5-Prax
I run with a smooth, feline stride across the long sandy plain. It’s particularly hot this morning—wayhotter than a typical summer day on Sadjim. My breathing is short, my heart pounding like a war drum.
I come to an abrupt stop and try to catch my breath. Bent forward, I watch my toes sink into the red sand. Red? That’s odd… the soil on my home planet is black, not red.
“What the hell’s he doing here?” asks a man’s voice suddenly—probably my father’s.
“Leave him be. Can’t you see he’s sick? Help me move him to the bedroom instead,” a woman replies.
Wait, I’m sick?
That explains the awful feeling coursing through my body. Now that I think about it, my head is throbbing, and I’m fighting the urge to throw up.
My father mustn’t find out I’m unwell. To him, being sick means being weak—and weakness? He hates that more than anything. A Sadjim is supposed to be ruthless at all times, never letting any sign of fragility show.
To my utter shame, I feel myself being lifted and carried. I try to open my eyes, but my eyelids weigh a ton.
They finally set me down. The smell in the room is fresher, less woody than my childhood bedroom. Where the hell have they taken me? I try to sit up. Useless. None of my limbs respond.
“We should tie him up,” my father mutters again.
“For what?” the woman asks. “You can see he’s completely harmless!”
“That’s what you think. What if he wakes up? What if he attacks you? Have you seen the size of him?”
