Through Thy Bounty
I stare down at the naked body of the boy on the butcher block as my mother’s nightmare washes through me. She is ill. Last night’s dreams were filled with fever-warped images of shrouded doctors, knives and needles, tubes and dark blood. The doctors of the Resistance will do their very best for her, but she is an old lady now, her body fragile. The thought that she might die turns my guts to ice.
Her life is my only hope in this Hell. But at least I know she is safe from the Jagaren. For now.
The boy is maybe eight or nine, redheaded, skinny and bruised. His ankles are purple and rope-burned. The gash in his neck is as pale as raw bacon; they’ve drained the blood from his body. Sometimes, depending on the menu du jour, they leave the chilled blood for me in a stainle
