The shattering of the ceramic bowl echoed through the timber walls like a whip crack.
At the foot of the cot, Jaxon bolted upright from under his quilt, his dark hair messy and his electric blue eyes wide with instant panic. He clutched his small wooden wolf against his chest, staring at the shattered clay on the floorboards and the blinding silver mist hovering over his mother’s body.
"Mommy!" Jaxon cried out, scrambling toward the head of the bed on his knees.
Max did not flinch, even as a jagged shard of clay sliced a thin line of red across the back of his left hand. With his right arm, he scooped Jaxon up, preventing the boy’s bare feet from touching the broken pottery, and set him gently onto his own broad knee.
"Stay still, Jaxon," Max said, his voice dropping into that steady,
