When I woke, I was sprawled on the cot in the side yard. My right hand was bandaged, but even the slightest twitch sent pain shooting through me like a hot poker. Gritting my teeth, I propped myself up, dug through my bag for the salve I always kept, and started re-dressing the wound. The powder stung like hell, sweat beading on my forehead, but I clamped my lips shut to keep from crying out.
Back when I got so much as a scratch, Theodore would lose it, fussing over me, blowing on the tiniest cut and whining, "Sis, it's gotta stop hurting." Now? My hand's broken, and he doesn't even glance my way.
I let out a bitter laugh, gripping the salve jar so tight my knuckles whitened.
Two days later, I was out in the yard drying herbs when the gate creaked open. Theodore stood there, dressed in
