Cayson's mouth was massively dehydrated. He groaned as his sensations returned bit by bit, beginning in his fingers and flowing down the length of his body, concluding in his toes. Something was laid across his forehead and it stirred him from his enforced slumber.

His eyes burned upon opening. Numerous periods of excessive blinking cured this bothersome sting. Once his sight straightened completely and he came to, he became aware of her. A woman drifted over him, dabbing his still scorching forehead with a cold cloth.

"What's going on?" Cayson whimpered, his stomach in knots. His head pulsed violently as he still fought to stop the room from revolving.

"You're awake," she grinned, driving back a scarlet curl that had escaped from her ponytail. "And you're talking, that's a good sign."

Cayson took in the setting. He was in one of the tents rather than inside the building. It was astonishingly big on the inside. Four beige cots were uniformly set apart alongside the left of the tent. The one he presently nested in was higher than the others and stashed in the corner. His fingers brushed against the bristly surface of his bed.

A deep-rooted, wobbly, wooden table was in the center. It was coated in diverse makeshift bowls, uprooted plants, and jury-rigged medical tools.

"How are you feeling?" She questioned, head slanted in inquisitiveness as she persistently continued to dab away the perspiration.

"Where are my friends?" His voice was frail. The woman didn't answer at first. She merely set down the fabric in one of the bowls, drumming her nails against the base of the cot. Cayson had been among the Base Camp and it's dwellers for less than a day, not counting the unidentified amount of time he spent unconscious.

Nonetheless, in that small sum of time he'd been disregarded and threatened so much that he was not going to permit it to happen again. Cayson initiated the unwise task of attempting to sit up. Pain spurt from his shoulder and he would have unthinkingly brawled through it if she hadn't softly set a hand on his chest and pressed him back down.

"Easy. You break those stiches and the doctor will kill you." Cayson stared at her. "No not literally."

"Where are my friends?" He reiterated.

"They're in holding," she, at long last, came back with. His stomach flipped.

"Holding?" She receded, extending for the provisional cup situated at the far-end of the bench.

"Drink this," she directed, thrusting the glass in his face.

"Holding?" Cayson countered with a request.

"This is your medicine . . . If you sit up and drink it, I'll tell you." Cayson pondered over consuming the eccentric fluid. He utilized his unstitched arm to kick off the taxing progression of sitting up. She positioned a hand on his back, supporting him in his battle.

In the end, he was victorious. Cayson tipped against a rigged bedhead, acquiring the cup of bizarre lumpy shards of puzzling bits and mesh's of colors; he sealed his nostrils and guzzled it. The substance was cool and chilled his arid throat.

"It's for your safety," she initiated almost immediately after Cayson gave back the cup. She restored it to its previous corner. "The first few days are tough . . . they just want to make sure you don't get . . ." 

She never completed her thought. Cayson tilted his head in the direction of his wounded shoulder, eyeing the various bandages draped around it. He expanded his reach, his fingers sweeping against it; he hissed. 

"What part of 'easy' do you not understand?" She tsked.

"Where's my shirt?" Cayson quizzed the instant he realized he was lying shirtless, his magnitude of bruises and scars visible. She inclined back, plucking a strip of his t-shirt from the bowl.

"Sean's going to bring you over a new one. We don't waste anything here." She slanted against his cot. "You have to be careful with that shoulder. Stiches are in short supply and there's no guarantee you'll get any more. We did have enough anesthetic left for your surgery but, since it's getting colder, we need to save the rest. You've already been given some antibiotics, those we'll have enough of. But you might be in some pain."

"Wait, surgery?!" The word 'surgery' provided Cayson with images of doctors in latex gloves and well-lighted rooms; not Pocahontas's tent.

"Doctor Wells had to search in your cut to make sure the knife hadn't left anything behind and then he stitched you up. Your cut was infected, which explained the fever, exhaustion, and the nausea."

"How did you know about that?" Cayson hadn't told her a thing.

"You've said some pretty funny stuff over the past two days," she snorted. "But during surgery you wouldn't let us forget how bad your head hurt." Cayson picked up his hand, prepared to trace his deep forehead cut. She swatted his hand away. "Four stiches."

"How do you have medicine here?" Cayson wondered.

"We grow it. We use Cayenne pepper for an anesthetic, garlic cabbage and a few other things as antibiotics . . . You'd be surprised at what some fruits and vegetables can do." Cayson licked his lips, his waterless lips waning.

"Can I have some water?" He pleaded. She, of course, had a dish ready. She gradually grasped it, unhurriedly strode over to him, and passed it over. Before she could even take in a breath Cayson knocked back the contents, abandoning zilch; not even a drop of water fell behind.

She enlarged her cobalt eyes prior to replacing the bare opening on the table top with the container.

"Thank you . . . uh . . . what's your name?" Cayson's throat felt funny.

"It's about time you asked," she tormented. "Elena." He twiddled his thumbs, headache worsening.

A split second before it transpired, it clicked in his mind that he was about to puke. He made a great effort to utter a warning but before he could Cayson was sloping over the cot, voiding the fillings of his stomach into a big pail. Elena bounded rearward, circling around it so she could both rub his back and evade the splash zone.

"I'm so sorry," Cayson straightaway asked for forgiveness, spitting to release the bitter acid flavor from his mouth.

"It's alright, don't worry about it. I don't think your body was ready for that much water." She tip-toed around the muddle.

"I'm sorry," he expressed once more in humiliation.

"It's okay. Between us, Sean caught the flu a little bit ago. He was in here puking and balling his eyes out like a baby. At least you're not crying." She presented to ease his mind.

"That's not true," Sean vetoed from the entryway. They hadn't even heard him pass in.

"Speak of the devil. Did you come back for your ointment?" She taunted.

"You're hysterical," Sean revolved his eyes with a smile. "At least you're awake. Mason has asked me about you probably every ten minutes. I'm scared one of these times he's going to get so mad at me he'll rip me in half or eat me."

"This guy big?" Elena speculated, tugging the bucket from the ground.

"He's looks like the baby of John Cena and Hulk Hogan," Sean educated, Cayson's laughter linking with Sean's.

"Afraid your scrawny ass can't take him?" Elena yanked on his cheek, smacking it before she trotted from the tent.

"Isn't she great?" Sean tittered. "How are you feeling?"

"Better, thanks."

"How's the arm?" Sean queried, progressing toward him.

"Not going to lie, it hurts." Sean bobbed his head, ceasing his walk at the cot adjacent to Cayson. He plopped down, relaxing on the end. "How are they?"

"Good," Sean took a breather in exploration for the right words. "In the morning they'll be evaluated and assigned to rooms."

"Evaluated?" Cayson requested.

"Ezra will just talk to them. Make sure they understand how dangerous it is to go beyond the camp barriers." Cayson raised his brows in aggravation once Sean aired Ezra's name. Cayson caught this action and stared at his shoes. "I know Ezra doesn't come off as the nicest guy but . . . he's in charge of everyone and he ju-just wants to keep everyone alive."

"How many . . ." He hesitated. "How many people have you . . ." Cayson fought to bung up the blank.

"Lost?" Sean packed in. "It uh . . . It usually happens in groups of four. Four people leave, four new ones come in-"

"But we weren't a group of four?" Cayson was muddled.

"We know . . . It's just another thing we don't understand." Cayson considered this. He was sure it was an additional reason for Ezra to be suspicious of them.

"Did you find anyone else?" Sean plummeted down two shades. He gaped at his thumb, lips thinning.

"Just one," he shuddered. "W-we . . . found a red ribbon that had been caught on a tree branch." Marcy had been sporting a rosy ribbon in her hair.

That only confirmed a single event for Cayson: Marcy hadn't made it, she was dead.