I expect him to spit it out. To fight me.
Instead, he keeps his eyes locked on mine as he chews slowly, then swallows.
His whole body seems to expand with the breath he takes after. Like he’s coming back to life, one swallow at a time.
How long has it been since he let food pass his lips?
I don’t give him time to reconsider. I push another spoonful to his lips. Then another. And another.
He eats half the bowl before I relent. It’s a large portion, and I don’t want it coming back up on an empty stomach.
“Good boy,” I say quietly.
Those large gray eyes just watch me. Silent. Assessing.
I have no idea how old he is. Can’t even confirm his gender beyond guessing from the width of his shoulders.
“Now let’s get you cleaned up,” I tell him. “Then we’ll get some rest.”
“Aren’t you hungry?” he asks. There’s more strength in his low voice now.
I smile down at him despite myself. “I’ll eat once you’re cleaned up.”
His eyes watch me warily as I help him crawl back to the water pump.
“Fair warning—this water is going to be ice cold,” I say. “Not pleasant.”
He doesn’t respond as I help position him under the spout.
I move the supplies out of the way, then stand to work the iron handle of the old pump. As I start pumping up and down, clean well-water pours over him.
He shivers violently but makes no move to escape.
At first, the water makes almost no difference to the caked mud. I lean down, take the bar of soap, and start scrubbing his face.
He allows it. His body stays mostly limp, pliant under my hands.
I’m shocked when the mud finally begins to loosen and wash away.
Holy shit, he’syoung.
Way younger than I expected. He’s not some ancient, toothless beggar at all. He looks maybe in his mid-twenties, though it’s still a little hard to tell with the long, matted beard.
He’s so gaunt and bony I’m genuinely shocked he’s alive. His cheekbones jut sharply. His eye sockets are hollowed out. Every rib is visible.
His hair is too long and tangled to properly wash. I grab the scissors I found inside and start cutting away the gnarled mess, washing it again and again. The brown mud sluices away to reveal?—
Blond.
Pale, almost white-blond hair.
I do the same to his beard, trimming it down to about an inch. I can’t remove it completely without the risk of cutting him, but this is better.
He starts helping me since the food seems to have given him strength, clawing layers of mud off his torso and legs. If he was wearing clothes at some point, they’ve long since disintegrated. How longwashe out there sitting against that tree?
When he turns, bending modestly to wash between his legs, I gasp.
There, protruding from between his shoulder blades?—
