Dana's jaw tightened. She'd built that perimeter herself, stringing salvaged fence mesh between the trees in overlapping layers.
Anyone who got caught in it deserved what they found. The wire didn't discriminate—it held rabbits and raiders with equal efficiency.
She took a step toward home.
Something moved in the mesh. A shadow, twisted and still.
Dana's finger found the rifle's trigger guard. The shadow had arms. Legs.
The shape of a human being, small and crumpled against the wire like a broken doll.
*Not your problem.*
But her feet were already moving, carrying her toward the fence line. The blood trail thickened, painting the snow in arterial red.
She could see the figure clearly now—a boy, maybe fifteen, caught in the wire mesh with his jacket torn open and his face pressed against the frozen ground.
He wasn't moving.
Dana stopped just outside the fence, rifle raised. The boy's chest rose and fell in shallow gasps.
Alive, then. Barely.
"Hey." Her voice cut through the silence, flat and hard. "You conscious?"
The boy's head turned slightly. One eye opened, brown and unfocused.
He tried to speak, but only a whisper of air escaped his lips.
Dana studied him through the scope. Thin face, hollow cheeks, skin pale as old paper.
The wire had caught him across the torso, his jacket snagged on the mesh in three places. His left arm hung at an odd angle, and blood soaked through his shirt from a gash along his ribs.
He could be bait. A trap.
Someone small and wounded enough to draw out a Good Samaritan, while his friends waited in the trees with weapons ready.
She swept the rifle across the forest, searching for movement. Nothing.
The boy remained motionless, his breathing growing more labored with each passing second.
"Who's with you?" Dana called out.
The boy's lips moved, but no sound emerged. His good hand clutched at the wire, fingers blue with cold.
Dana waited. The wind picked up, rattling the branches overhead and sending snow spiraling from the pine boughs.
The boy's breathing grew shallower.
*He's dying.*
The thought struck her like a physical blow. She'd seen that particular shade of pale before, in field hospitals and aid stations.
The gray tinge around the eyes, the way the skin seemed to thin and grow translucent. He had maybe ten minutes before shock claimed him.
Dana lowered the rifle. Her hands moved to the wire cutters on her belt, then stopped.
Walking away was the smart play. The safe play.
She'd survived three years in this place by following one simple rule: other people's problems weren't her problems. The boy would die, and she'd bury him in spring when the ground thawed.
End of story.
But something held her in place. Maybe it was the way he'd stopped struggling, accepting death with the quiet resignation of someone who'd never expected to live long anyway.
Maybe it was the silence—most people screamed when they bled out. This boy just lay there, watching her with those dark eyes, waiting.
Dana pulled out the wire cutters.
"Don't move," she said. "I'm coming through."
The boy's eye fluttered closed. His hand went slack against the wire.