A sleeping frog girl

You drift in and out of consciousness for the next eight hours. Your sense of absoluteness warps as you never quite wrap your head around what part of this awful night is real and what's in your head. It doesn't help that you wake up every once in a while to sharp abdominal pains.
After way too many hours of this ****, you wake up for good.
You assess your damages. Your abdomen still hurts like someone is playing hopscotch in your hip. Your feet is more sore than actively hurting, but it will definitely take a while for it to completely recover. Your head is fine enough. You have a massive urge to pee. You feel a slight pressure on your right arm, probably caused by... wait, you never hurt your arms. You look to your right.

A small tuft of emerald hair is blocking just about everything in your vision. A familiar frog girl has curled herself onto your right arm, her webbed fingers slightly poking the side of your midriff, and her cute little button nose pressed into your elbow pit. She is deeply asleep.
You wonder her motivations. She does have a bed of her own, no? Considering the size, you're probably sleeping in her parents' bed. Oh right, her parents. The ones that are no more.
You give her some more time to snooze, hoping that she will roll off your arm in her sleep. You count the cracks in the wooden ceiling. You watch the sun rise through the window. You look at the shattered bowl at the far end of the room. You furrow your brow and ponder the events of the last two days.
About an hour passes of you doing nothing in particular, but in the end your need to take a piss forces your hand.
You turn over, carefully avoiding squishing the girl's hand with your torso, slightly hurting your now settled wound. You gently prod her shoulder to awaken her.
Her eyes goes draggingly agape. Her facial expressions goes from confused to apologetic in a matter of moments.

"I... " Claire throatily croaks. She clears her throat.

"I a-am sorry, ma'am." she frantically apologizes: "I just felt alone and scared without my parents. I couldn't sleep. I s-should have asked."

You shrug: "It's your bed, little miss. You can do whatever you want with it."

She calms down a little, knowing that you aren't angry. Her breathing steadies.

You cautiously reel in your right arm.

"Could you lift your head?" you ask calmly: "I really need to use an outhouse."

She lifts her head up and you retrieve your arm. You roll back on your rear. You use all of your arm strength to push your body up. As your abdomen bends, a piercing pain courses through it. You clench your teeth and your fists in response. You turn over, and lob your legs over the edge of the bed, and through sheer willpower you **** yourself up into a standing position.
As the abdomen stretches out once again, the pain relieves a bit. Claire is on the verge of sleep once again. You let her rest. You make your way outside and into the small outhouse. Not wanting to bend your abdomen more you drop your loincloth and pee standing up. Your hands on your large flaccid orc cock swaying free.
The relief of finally getting to pee calms you, but is quickly interrupted by the feeling of the bloodied bandages loosening and your stomach drooping a bit. Pain surges through your entire body like a locomotive is driving through it.
As if by fate, when the last drop of pee leaves your urethra, you fall backwards through the door of the outhouse into the golden sands of the rising sun, naked from the waist down, writhing in indescribable pangs of anguish.
You need to call for help or you're basically dead. Your throat fails you. Any use of your vocal chord just results in a slight hissing sound as the pain takes over any control of your diaphragm.
In a last ditch effort to not die the most embarrassing **** imaginably, you look around. A small rock is sort of within reach. You stretch a bit to pick it up, only making the pain worse. You rest it in your hand. You look to the window of the bedroom you just slept in, and you chug the rock through it.
A loud cracking noise is heard, and not long after a small head can be seen peeking through it. As soon as you make eye contact with Claire she rushes out.

"Oh my god, ma'am! Are you alright?" she asks.

"Do I look alright?" you hiss, the pain taking away any chance of civility: "Go get Emily. NOW!"

She runs. You just lie in the sand. The stench of the open outhouse filling your nostrils, and your torso bleeding into sand once again.
After what feels like an eternity, a familiar figure of a woman with raccoon features enters your vision.

"Holy hell, you look terrible!" she yells concerned. You don't reply.

She looks at the recently reopened wound.

"I was really hoping that it wouldn't have to come to this." she says through gritted teeth: "At least it's not infected. That honey did it some good."

She empties her back pack and takes out a bottle of whiskey, an unlabeled bottle, a small rag, some more honey, and some metal-looking wires.
She opens up the bottle of booze.

"I really don't want anymore whiskey." you say in a haze.

"This is not for you." she states before taking a swig of it: "I just need to calm my nerves. Helps the stitching process."

"Stitching?" you ask tired.

She then opens the other bottle, puts the small rag to the tip of it, and then turns them upside down, dipping some liquid onto the rag.

"This is for you." she says, as she puts the rag up your mouth and nose.

You feel the world fading once more.