I let the hope that he would live through this—that I would really save him—grow a little taller.
He was going to die.
It was the cruelest twist of fate, to give me what I desired most and instantly take it away.
But crueler than that was this boy’s suffering. His small frame was covered in a constellation of scars and fresher wounds, all his hurts—past and present—right there to see.
His fever had gotten worse.
I sat by his side for days, wiping the wet cloth down his face, trying to cool him even a little. He was burning up and in a lot of pain, and he hadn’t woken up since that first day. Just kept shifting restlessly, moaning softly.
I did everything I could to bring his fever down in those first few days. I wrapped wet cloths around his feet, fanned him forhours with a thin piece of plywood I’d found, wiped off all the sweat pouring out of him. He’d die of dehydration at this rate.
I made bone broth and held his head up as I tipped it into his mouth through the gaps in the muzzle, trying to get even a little to go down. He did swallow some of it, but a lot of it ended up dribbling down his chin to his chest. I did the same with water.
There was an agitated voice in my head, screaming at me to remove the muzzle and collar while he was out like this, and as much as I wanted to, I stopped myself from following through with it.
I might end up doing more harm than good because he wasn’t just lying still; he was incredibly restless and constantly shifting around, and if I tried to cut them off when he was like that, I might actually end up killing him or severely hurting him.
And what if I was completely wrong and he was wearing them by his own choice? What if hewantedto wear them? If he woke up and found them gone, he’d feel violated in some way. And he’d been terrified when I brought the bolt cutters out that first time.
I wanted him to have the choice, to be the one to decide whether he wanted them off or not. I could get the water and broth into him fine anyway.
God, this was all so fucked.
I wasn’t sure I’d ever felt so helpless, not even when I’d watched a swarm of infected rip into Dad right in front of me.
This kind of helplessness made me feel smaller than a pebble and just as insignificant.
Regret coiled around me, all thosewhat ifsandshould havesmelding to my limbs, sinking into my veins until they were all I could hear.
What if he died? I didn’t even get to talk to him. To see his eyes up close. To justbewith someone else. And what if it really was all my fault?
Dad told me life was precious, but what about when you did bad things? What about when you made the kind of mistake that imprints itself on your soul, that is so big it swallows your entire being? So vast that no amount of running will help you escape it?
What if you make the kind of mistake that gets someone else killed, and you can no longer go on living knowing that?
I should have warned him sooner, I should have told him right away to not take that goddamn step.
I should go back and never dig that godforsaken pit to begin with. All it ever caught were wild animals. I’d done it to protect myself, but it was selfish, wasn’t it? I didn’t necessarily need that moat pit, it was just an extra precaution.
Fuck, I was going insane with all these doubts and fears and regrets proliferating inside my mind. Buzzing around me like a thick swarm of gnats.
What was his name? How old was he? Where had he come from?
Questions I’d probably never get to ask him joined the swarm, and knowing I’d never get to ask only made the sting of it all the more vicious.
There was no one else to blame but me. I could carry a lot on these shoulders, but not this weight. This regret. It was the kind that time couldn’t dim or heal. It would stay as sharp and bright and biting as the first moment it spawned into being.
But still, I’d try my damndest to keep him alive. To give him something better than suffering. I didn’t know him, but he was special. He was still alive, still precious, and for that reason alone, he was special.
I changed his bandage twice a day, cleaned the wound just as often, making sure it wasn’t infected, that it was healing properly. I’d started to put a salve on it to quicken the process; it seemed to be healing, albeit very slowly. It didn’t look infected, but his fever wasn’t going down, and that was concerning.
Luna sat by my side every day. Sometimes she got up on the bed and lay near his feet. She could feel I was upset, knew something was deeply wrong and gave me comfort with her presence.
And then his fever broke.
Five days and a million moments of despair later, I let myself hope again.
