Dana worked quickly, snipping through the mesh in careful strokes. The wire sprang back with each cut, releasing its tension with small, angry pings.
She carved a hole large enough to crawl through, then grabbed the boy under his good arm.
He was lighter than she'd expected, all sharp angles and hollow spaces. His skin felt like ice through his torn clothes.
She dragged him clear of the wire, then knelt beside him in the snow.
The gash along his ribs was deep but clean—probably from the wire mesh itself. His left arm was dislocated, not broken.
Painful, but survivable. The real problem was the blood loss and exposure. His lips had gone blue, and his pulse felt thready against her fingers.
"Stay with me," she said, though she wasn't sure why. The boy's eyes remained closed.
Dana slung her rifle across her back and lifted him in a fireman's carry. He weighed nothing, like carrying a bundle of sticks wrapped in cloth.
She trudged through the snow toward the farmhouse, her boots crunching on the frozen ground.
The front door stood slightly ajar—she'd left it that way on purpose, in case she needed to get inside quickly.
Dana shouldered through, then kicked the door shut behind her. The wood stove's warmth hit her like a wall, and she felt the boy stir slightly against her shoulder.
She carried him to the kitchen table and laid him down on the scarred wood surface. His breathing was shallow but steady.
Dana grabbed a kerosene lamp from the counter and lit it, casting yellow light across his pale features.
Up close, she could see he was younger than she'd first thought. Maybe fourteen, with the kind of thin face that suggested chronic hunger.
His clothes were better than most—thick jacket, decent boots, pants that hadn't been patched a dozen times. Someone had been taking care of him, at least until recently.
Dana pulled her field kit from beneath the sink and got to work. She cut away his jacket and shirt, revealing the full extent of the wire damage.
The gash along his ribs was clean but deep, weeping blood steadily. She cleaned it with antiseptic, then began stitching.
The boy's eyes opened as the needle bit into his skin. He looked up at her with a mixture of pain and confusion, but he didn't cry out.
"Hold still," Dana said. "This is going to hurt."
The boy's jaw tightened, but he nodded.
Dana continued stitching, her hands steady despite the tremor she felt in her chest. She'd done this before, too many times to count. Field surgery by lamplight, racing against time and blood loss.
But this was different. This was her kitchen, her table, her choice.
She finished the stitches and moved to his dislocated shoulder. The boy watched her with those dark eyes, never looking away.
"This is going to hurt worse," she said.
The boy nodded again.
Dana braced herself and popped the joint back into place. The boy's back arched, and a strangled sound escaped his throat, but he didn't scream.
When it was over, he lay still, breathing hard.
"You're lucky," Dana said, wiping blood from her hands. "Wire could have caught you in the neck."
The boy said nothing. He stared at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths.
Dana wrapped his ribs with clean bandages, then fashioned a sling for his arm. The boy remained silent throughout, accepting her ministrations without comment or complaint.
When she finished, she stepped back and studied her work. The boy would live.
The stitches would hold, and the shoulder would heal properly if he didn't push it. In a few days, he'd be able to walk out of here.
"You got a name?" she asked.
The boy's eyes found hers. For a moment, she thought he might speak.
Then he turned his head away.
Dana nodded. She hadn't really expected an answer.
She cleaned her instruments and put them away, then stoked the fire in the wood stove. The boy's breathing had steadied, and some color had returned to his cheeks.
He'd sleep now, if he was smart. His body needed time to rebuild what it had lost.
Dana poured herself a cup of coffee from the pot on the stove. It was cold and bitter, but she drank it anyway.
Through the kitchen window, she could see the trees swaying in the wind, their branches scratching against the gray sky.
Somewhere out there, someone was looking for the boy. Someone who'd driven him to run bleeding through the woods, desperate enough to risk the wire.
The question was whether they'd find him before he was strong enough to leave.
Dana sipped her coffee and watched the tree line. The boy slept on her kitchen table, his breathing soft and regular.
She'd saved his life, but she wasn't sure she'd done him any favors.
The wire would need repairs. The perimeter would need checking.
And somewhere in the woods, danger was closing in.
But for now, the farmhouse was quiet. The stove crackled. The boy breathed.
Dana finished her coffee and reached for her rifle. There was work to do.