Inside, the space opens up into a surprisingly high-ceilinged chamber. Sunlight filters through narrow cracks overhead, painting soft lines of light across the floor. Woven mats cover parts of the stone, made from grass, moss, and strips of peeled bark. There’s a low stone platform piled with thick furs that must serve as a bed. Along one wall, shelves have been carved into the rock and filled with an odd assortment of items: jars of dried plants, bundles of herbs, careful piles of stones, a human mug with a chipped rim that readsICryptids But They Drive Me Crazy.
My eyes widen, but I’m too fascinated, taking everything in, to speak just yet.
In another corner, a tangle of human technology sprawls over a flat rock: three monitors (two black, one faintly flickering), a battered keyboard, towers of old machines, a webof cables running into the stone itself. One of the screens glows with a faint, pulsing icon.
I stare.
He notices.
“Don’t,” he says, pointing at the tech corner, “touch anything over there.”
“Wasn’t going to,” I lie.
He gives me a look that says he absolutely does not believe me, then lowers himself onto the mats with a grunt. He leans against the stone wall, breathing a little harder now that the adrenaline of the walk has worn off.
“Supplies,” he says, nodding toward a carved niche beside the bed.
I move to it, trying not to gawk at everything like I’m wandering through a museum exhibit. The niche is neatly organized. Cloth bundles. A small metal box. Several glass jars with pressed herbs inside. A short, sharp scalpel-like blade with a bone handle. Whoever this sasquatch is, he isn’t living like some mindless creature in a legend. This is deliberate. Thoughtful. Practical.
I bring the box and a bundle of cloth over and kneel at his side again.
“Lie back a little,” I say. “It’ll make it easier.”
He obeys, very slowly, teeth gritted, until he’s reclined enough that I can reach the wound comfortably.
“Last chance to kick me out,” I say, trying for lightness. “Once I start poking, there’s no going back.”
He snorts softly. “You talk too much,” he says, but there’s no heat in it. If anything, it sounds faintly fond. “Do what you must.”
That’s all the permission I need.
I clean as best I can, using water from a nearby clay jug and a cloth. His muscles jump beneath my fingers, powerful andcoiled, but he doesn’t move away. When I pick up the bone-handled tool, my hands are steady.
“This will hurt,” I remind him.
“You said that before. You were correct.”
“Just proving I know what I’m talking about.”
I make a small incision at the spot where the bullet is buried. He hisses between his teeth, one massive hand curling into the mat, but he doesn’t flinch. His breathing becomes heavier, more deliberate, as if he’s riding each wave of pain like a trained swimmer.
He mutters under his breath in another language—rougher, full of consonants and rhythm. It sounds like old mountains and newer swear words.
“What was that?” I ask softly, just to keep him talking.
“A complaint about human hunters, their aim, their smell, and their life choices,” he grinds out.
“That seems fair,” I say.
“I’m very tempted,” he adds tightly, “to reroute every hiking map on their phones into the nearest lake.”
I snort, then immediately feel bad for shaking his side. “Sorry,” I say quickly.
“Just get it out,” he says, though his eyes are bright with humor beneath the strain.
“I’m working on it,” I reply. “Some of us don’t have super speed or a blur setting.”
“Super speed is an exaggeration.”
