He thought he was recovering well. Everyone kept telling him to rest. But then came the heat, like gripping the lip of an active volcano and peering over to get a better look. It was stifling, filling his den. He couldn't breathe, could barely think clearly, his thoughts swimming, scattering, hard to grasp. His fur was damp with sweat and he shivered despite the searing pain in his leg.

His leg. He couldn't even lift his head enough to see it, but he could tell it was probably bad. It wouldn't have hurt so much if it wasn't. A single, sobering thought punched through the darkened haze: would he lose it? But then he just... woke up.

He wasn't in his den. He was outside, the sun just barely beginning to rise. Warm wind whistled through his fur, birds chirped in distant trees. The dirt beneath him was soft and dark. Fertile, good for crops. Or recently disturbed. The thoughts came in snatches, confused, but not hazy or disorienting like they used to be, when his leg was on fire and every breath felt like his last.

In fact, he felt... fine. More than fine, even. There was no pain, no heat that wasn't the sun warming his back. He lifted his head and his leg was fine. There was a pile of stones at his back, guarding some kind of stick or small sapling that was staked into the ground behind it, and— wait, had his fur always looked like that?