Sasha drifted in and out of consciousness that night. He was cold and pale like death. The few moments that he spent awake, he tried to draw close to the warm body beside him, desperate for heat. Even when the sun rose, he continued to shiver and tremble.
It was decided that he couldn't be moved. Any time he tried to roll or moved wrong, the wound would crack open and begin to ooze blood and pus. He was too big to be carried, and now too fragile to risk. So a shelter was built around him, big enough to fit the small group at night to sleep.
The second night was spent huddling close to anyone near him. He was still so cold. But by morning, his skin was starting to sweat. The fever started off minor. He could be washed down with cool water every now and then to keep it down, but as the days passed, it only got worse.
By night three, his fever had peaked. He vomited anything given to him, be it food or water. It wasn't long before dehydration set in, and he grew weak. It was briefly discussed among the group if trying to save him was worth the waste of resources. At the time, it didn't seem likely that he would make it.
Delirium set in somewhere around that time. Any time he was awake was spent mumbling to himself in Russian. He wouldn't respond to words spoken in English. The fever dreams were the worst; his whimpers and soft cries would keep the others awake at night. What he thought he was seeing could only be guessed at.
By day five, the fever finally broke. Sasha's body cooled down, and he slowly regained his mental clarity. However, the last four days without food or water staying in his stomach had made him very weak. He could barely speak, and he had to be helped to roll onto his side to eat or drink. His diet consisted solely of water and mushed up berries and fruit. Anything else was too hard to stomach.
His weight loss was worrisome. Going from a diet of around 4000 calories to barely 500 had forced his body to waste away. About half of what he was given actually stayed down, and the other half was heaved back up. As weak as he was, he was helpless to offer any help to clean himself or the shelter floor up.
By day seven, he could finally hold down food again. It was decided that it was best to give him small portions about every two hours. Sasha was still weak, but he was slowly regaining a bit of strength. He could just about sit up on his own to feed himself.
Over the course of the next seven days, Sasha finally grew strong enough to shuffle around the camp and do minor tasks. Being able to finally wash himself on his own was the first thing he tested.
He looked like a completely different person, having lost almost 60 pounds. It looked pretty awful. The scar on his side had slowly healed, but any time he strained himself, it threatened to tear open and begin to bleed again. It usually bled slowly, but it was persistent enough to be bothersome when he was already so drained.
Sasha kept himself busy with some wood he found and a stone knife. He whittled the wood down into the vague shape of a shoe sole, stopping often to resharpen the knife. The shoes he appeared to be making were far too small for himself. The task of whittling them down into what should be a comfortable form took him the better part of three days in between rest. He was still weakened from his injury and illness, so he slept several more hours than usual.
After he finished four of the wooden soles, Sasha began to poke around in the scrap leather for something he could use as sandal straps.
It was decided that he couldn't be moved. Any time he tried to roll or moved wrong, the wound would crack open and begin to ooze blood and pus. He was too big to be carried, and now too fragile to risk. So a shelter was built around him, big enough to fit the small group at night to sleep.
The second night was spent huddling close to anyone near him. He was still so cold. But by morning, his skin was starting to sweat. The fever started off minor. He could be washed down with cool water every now and then to keep it down, but as the days passed, it only got worse.
By night three, his fever had peaked. He vomited anything given to him, be it food or water. It wasn't long before dehydration set in, and he grew weak. It was briefly discussed among the group if trying to save him was worth the waste of resources. At the time, it didn't seem likely that he would make it.
Delirium set in somewhere around that time. Any time he was awake was spent mumbling to himself in Russian. He wouldn't respond to words spoken in English. The fever dreams were the worst; his whimpers and soft cries would keep the others awake at night. What he thought he was seeing could only be guessed at.
By day five, the fever finally broke. Sasha's body cooled down, and he slowly regained his mental clarity. However, the last four days without food or water staying in his stomach had made him very weak. He could barely speak, and he had to be helped to roll onto his side to eat or drink. His diet consisted solely of water and mushed up berries and fruit. Anything else was too hard to stomach.
His weight loss was worrisome. Going from a diet of around 4000 calories to barely 500 had forced his body to waste away. About half of what he was given actually stayed down, and the other half was heaved back up. As weak as he was, he was helpless to offer any help to clean himself or the shelter floor up.
By day seven, he could finally hold down food again. It was decided that it was best to give him small portions about every two hours. Sasha was still weak, but he was slowly regaining a bit of strength. He could just about sit up on his own to feed himself.
Over the course of the next seven days, Sasha finally grew strong enough to shuffle around the camp and do minor tasks. Being able to finally wash himself on his own was the first thing he tested.
He looked like a completely different person, having lost almost 60 pounds. It looked pretty awful. The scar on his side had slowly healed, but any time he strained himself, it threatened to tear open and begin to bleed again. It usually bled slowly, but it was persistent enough to be bothersome when he was already so drained.
Sasha kept himself busy with some wood he found and a stone knife. He whittled the wood down into the vague shape of a shoe sole, stopping often to resharpen the knife. The shoes he appeared to be making were far too small for himself. The task of whittling them down into what should be a comfortable form took him the better part of three days in between rest. He was still weakened from his injury and illness, so he slept several more hours than usual.
After he finished four of the wooden soles, Sasha began to poke around in the scrap leather for something he could use as sandal straps.
