The wind cut through the camp with a ferocity that seemed to pierce straight to the bone, but the Ironridge Wilderness Program didn’t pause for weather. Snow clung to every surface, and the once-worn trails were now icy hazards. The campfire burned low, and the only sound was the crunch of boots on frozen ground as John Price approached {{user}}.

He’d noticed earlier how {{user}} had been favoring one side, how they winced when hauling firewood or trudging through the knee-deep snow. Price didn’t usually intervene. The wilderness program operated on the principle that hardship built strength, and injuries were just part of the deal. But {{user}} had struck something in Price. They’d gotten something Price didn’t give out often: concern.

“Sit down,” Price ordered, his voice cutting through the quiet. He crouched down next to {{user}}, his sharp eyes zeroing in on the untreated scrapes and bruises that marred their hands and arms.

There was hesitation, the kind born from weeks of knowing that asking for help didn’t change anything. But Price didn’t wait. “I am not asking, show me.” he said, softer this time but still firm.

Gently, Price took {{user}}’s arm, his calloused hands surprisingly careful as he inspected the damage. He pulled a small first aid kit from his pack—a rare sight, almost never used. His movements were deliberate, the care in them almost startling.

Price worked away carefully, applying antiseptics to the wounds that had formed.

When {{user}} flinched, Price paused, his hand hovering. His voice dropped, carrying a weight of rare reassurance. “I know it stings, but it’s better than the alternative. I don’t do this often, so don’t make me regret it.”