Now that the fight was over I sat on the rock next to my fire and opened the med kit, my hands still trembling from the adrenaline, the rawness of the coyote attack still echoing through my body. The wound on my side throbbed faintly beneath the makeshift bandage, the blood seeping slowly, a reminder that I wasn't invincible. I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself, letting the warmth of the dying fire and the faint breeze calm the shaking. First, I checked the wound—deep, jagged, and angry-looking, the flesh bruised around the edges, the skin pulled tight from the gash. I had survived the fight, but this was far from over. I reached into my bag, my fingers brushing against the worn, weathered first-aid kit my dad had packed for me years ago during those camping trips. He had always been a doctor, always prepared, always thinking ahead, and now his lessons were the only thing keeping me from panicking. I opened the kit, pulling out a clean cloth and dipping it into the creek water. My hands trembled as I pressed it to the wound, wiping away the blood and dirt. The sting made me grit my teeth, but I reminded myself of his words: "Clean the wound first; you can't heal something that's infected." I could hear his voice, calm and steady, guiding my movements as I carefully dabbed and wiped, removing any grit or grime that could cause trouble later. Next, I tore a strip of cloth from my shirt, dampened it in the creek, and cut it to the right size with a small knife, just like he had taught me. "A bandage has to fit," he said, "too small and it won't protect, too big and it will get in the way." His voice echoed in my head, and I reminded myself not to think about the irony of all the pills he had taken in life that had hurt him, even as he taught me to be careful. I pressed the cloth strip gently to the wound, applying pressure to slow the bleeding, counting the seconds in my head to make sure it was enough. I wrapped the next strip around the wound, starting from the bottom and moving upward, tying it carefully, snug but not suffocating. The rough fabric scratched against my skin, but I ignored it, focusing on the task. The blood had seeped through slightly, so I grabbed a roll of gauze from the kit, wrapping it over the cloth for an extra layer of protection. The absorbent material held the wound steady, and I tied it securely, testing the pressure with a careful tug. My hands were sticky with blood, my fingers trembling from fatigue, but I kept going. I made sure to change the bandage every few hours, just as my dad had drilled into me, knowing that consistent care could mean the difference between healing and infection. I boiled a small amount of creek water for a meal, carefully roasting a piece of rabbit meat from yesterday's catch, savoring the taste despite the lingering metallic tang of blood in my mouth. Each bite gave me energy, and I leaned against the pine tree, tracing the carvings I had made to mark my days, the lines in the bark becoming a rhythm of survival, a measure of my existence in this wild, harsh world. I cleaned my knife, sharpened it, and checked my traps, moving slowly to avoid jarring the wound. My body ached, my muscles stiff from the fight, but I knew that keeping the fire going and the tools ready was as important as bandaging myself. When the sun rose higher, I changed the bandage again, repeating the careful steps of cleaning with the cloth, applying charcoal paste, wrapping strips of fabric snugly, and tying knots to hold it all in place. The charcoal stung, gritty and black against raw skin, but it worked to pull toxins from the wound. I adjusted my sleeping area, reinforcing the firewood stack, and prepped a small shelter for the night, all while alternating between rest and attention to the injury. Every action grounded me, gave me purpose, and reminded me that I was capable of surviving here. I rested against the tree, eyes closed, listening to the wind through the branches, the faint rustle of leaves, and the distant calls of wildlife, letting the rhythm of the forest soothe the pain. I changed the bandage again in the late afternoon, making sure the wound was secure before preparing a small portion of meat for dinner. I ate slowly, deliberately, savoring each bite, feeling the warmth of the fire on my back, and letting my body absorb what little nourishment I could manage. The sun dipped low, painting the forest in golden light, and I cleaned the wound one last time before nightfall, pressing the cloth and gauze carefully, securing it in place. I settled into my sleeping bag, the fire crackling faintly beside me, my breathing slow and deliberate. The routine had become my anchor: clean, eat, rest, heal, repeat. I let my thoughts drift, keeping one eye on the surroundings but allowing my body the rest it desperately needed. Tomorrow would demand more strength, more vigilance, but tonight I survived. I let the steady rhythm of the forest lull me into a careful, deep sleep, knowing that my hands, my preparation, and my determination were all I had to rely on, and i new eventually that wouldnt be enough. I needed to find a way out, I needed to find escape from this forest. And I will.
