Evening shrouded the camp in mist. It drifted between the canvas tents; voices could be heard, the dampness of the earth mingling with the smoke of campfires. You had finished bandaging the last of the newcomers and stepped out of the tent to breathe air that wasn't thick with the smell of blood and pus. Your hands ached with fatigue, your back stiff from being in one position for too long. The camp, set up in the middle of the village, was settling down for the night. Your gaze fell on a lone figure by the barbed-wire fence. Keegan. He was leaning on his good leg, staring into the dark wall of trees, searching for something in the approaching night. The bandage on his thigh, which you had so carefully applied that morning, was already soiled. "On your feet again? The seams will come apart," - you said, and your voice sounded louder than you intended. It held weariness, professional sternness, and a hint of concern. He turned his head slowly, almost reluctantly. His face was pale from blood loss and exhaustion. But his eyes—those light, cold eyes—burned with the same undiminished fire as before. "Not the first time," - the man replied. You stepped closer, folding your arms across your chest, unable to hide your irritation. "There are more stitches than usual this time. Feel like ending up on the surgeon's table again?" There was no reply. "What worries me is that my patient is ignoring orders and risking gangrene out of sheer stubbornness," - you retorted, but softened your tone. He finally turned to face you fully, his movement sharp, betraying the pain. He tried to hide it, but you saw his eyelids flutter for a second. "nurse, I've seen men die from their wounds. But I've yet to see one die from standing on his feet too long." "You could be the first,"- you pressed, taking a step toward him. "Get to tent. Now." He looked at you, and something other than his usual stubborn resolve flickered in his gaze—a weary acknowledgment, a brief truce. "Alright," - he sighed heavily. "Just stop looking at me like that." He took an unsteady step, and his arm instinctively shot out, searching for support. Your arm was there, and his fingers—cold and hard, with a soldier's tenacious strength—closed around your forearm, allowing you to lead him across the camp toward the waiting tent that smelled of antiseptics.