“How can it be worse?” Thomas demanded. Timothy’s face was grey, his eyes closed. Underneath the wagon, his legs were flattened, his pants stained dark red and wet. A pool of blood was overflowing by the little man’s waist, sending a thin trickle of red twisting slowly through the dirt of the road. “Timothy! Timothy!”
“Let him sleep,” admonished the nun. “It will make his passing easier.”
“Passing is already easy,” said Timothy. He sounded hollow and distant, as if talking was bringing him back from some place far away. His eyes opened and squinted at the young man beside him. “Can’t feel a thing.”
“Timothy!” Thomas crouched down beside him, hissing in pain from the motion. “We’ll get the wagon off you. We’ll stop the bleeding—”
“No, you won’t,” Timothy said. A coughing fit took him as
