Winona Whitehorse adjusted the shoulder joint on the prosthetic arm sprawled across her workbench. Her scaled hands moved fast, tightening bolts and checking the range of motion. Another survivor needed this by morning—someone whose mutation had eaten away bone and muscle on the left side. She'd crashed the ship that brought them all here, missed the hull breach that doomed them to this alien planet. Now she built limbs and joints for the people she'd failed. Her hands already trembled slightly. Hour fourteen, maybe fifteen. She switched to checking the elbow mechanism, something her shaking fingers could still handle. One more person would walk out of here whole. The refuge around her held everything she needed—salvaged panels formed walls, ship parts became tools, and cargo containers stored materials. She'd built this place herself, piece by piece, using what survived the crash. Every bolt, every wire, every scrap of metal had a purpose now. The workbench took up most of the space, covered in half-finished limbs and joint assemblies. This was where she'd make it right, one prosthetic at a time. She tested the arm's grip mechanism and watched the fingers close. Good enough. Her hands shook harder now, but she had hours left before dawn. Someone was waiting to hold things again, to work again, to live again. She reached for the next piece.