Foster father

03

Carter Vaughn quickly finished cooking the wolf leg. Turning his head, he saw the boy holding a stick in both hands, roasting it over the fire. The flickering flames illuminated his small face, the streaks of dried tears still visible.

After finishing his task, Carter Vaughn leaned against a nearby tree to rest. He removed his dirty camouflage jacket and began unwrapping the bandages on his arm to change the dressing. Supplies were running low—his first-aid ointment was almost gone, and he had barely half a roll of damp bandages left. The conditions were terrible, and what started as a minor cut had now worsened significantly. Grimacing at the sight of the inflamed wound, he did what he could: applying the remaining ointment and wrapping it with a clean strip of bandage.

He knew he needed to leave soon. In this condition, his arm wouldn’t hold out for long.

After tending to his wound, Carter looked up and saw the boy standing by the fire, tightly pursing his lips. Sweat glistened on his face as the flames warmed him. His tattered clothes fluttered like rags in the wind, and Carter couldn’t help but think they might catch fire at any moment.

Soon, the aroma of roasted meat wafted through the air. Carter swallowed hard, his eyes glued to the meat. After a while, the boy turned, holding the stick of roasted meat out toward him.

“Is it ready to eat?” the boy asked, his voice cautious.

Carter grabbed the stick, gave the meat a quick glance, and bit into it without hesitation. It burned his mouth, blistering his tongue and cheeks, but hunger trumped discomfort. He devoured the meat with desperate speed, his body screaming for sustenance after days of near starvation.

The boy, Oliver, watched him with wide, shining eyes, his gaze fixated on the meat disappearing into Carter’s mouth. Saliva pooled in his own.

When Carter had eaten his fill, he handed the stick back to the boy. “Keep roasting.”

Oliver obediently returned to the fire and skewered more chunks of meat. The stick, heavier now with added pieces, was almost too much for his small hands to manage, but he held on tightly, eager for the meat to cook faster.

After several rounds of this, Carter finally felt a measure of relief. He had wolfed down chunks of bland, flavorless meat, but the gnawing hunger that had plagued him was gone. Oliver, however, waited until Carter was finished before retreating to a corner to eat in silence. He tore at the meat with a sullen expression.

Carter gave him a curious glance. “Not to your liking?”

The boy struggled to swallow a bite and nodded hesitantly.

Carter scoffed. “Picky in a place like this? Really?”

After a pause, the boy replied softly, “There’s a type of bug. It’s sweet. Tastes better than this.”

Carter froze. “You eat bugs?”

The boy’s eyes turned red with suppressed tears. “I was too hungry.”

Carter couldn’t help but marvel at the boy’s sheer luck. Eating random insects in this treacherous forest and surviving without poisoning himself was nothing short of miraculous.

Carter’s own starvation over the past three days was due to his cautious approach. He knew better than to trust the local flora and fauna in the swampy terrain—most were either inedible or too difficult to catch. Even when he’d gone without food during his guerrilla days in Africa at the age of thirteen, he’d managed to scrape by on wild grasses. But back then, he had comrades to share the burden with.

Here, alone in enemy terrain, his physical and mental reserves were stretched to their limits. Encountering this boy, however burdensome, was at least something to keep him tethered to reality. Talking to someone helped him stay alert, warding off the dangerous pull of exhaustion.

But a five-year-old was far from a reliable companion. Until Carter reached what he deemed a secure area, he couldn’t afford to let his guard down—not even for sleep.

Sated but physically drained, Carter felt his eyelids grow heavy. His body cried out for rest, every ache and pain magnified by fatigue. Yet, when he glanced down, he saw that the boy had already collapsed onto the ground and fallen asleep.

A flicker of jealousy passed through him. How carefree children could be.

Dragging himself upright, Carter gathered his gear: backpack, rifle, and knife. He approached Oliver and gave him a nudge with his boot.

The boy startled awake, scrambling to his feet.

“We’re moving,” Carter said curtly. The kid was a burden, but for now, he had decided to keep him around. As long as the boy helped him stay conscious, he was worth the trouble.

Oliver frowned, his delicate face creasing with displeasure. “I’m too tired. Can’t we rest a bit longer?”

Carter’s expression darkened. “You coming or not?” He stomped out the fire and started walking.

Sniffling, Oliver picked up the scraps of food and trailed behind him, his small frame trembling in the chilly forest air. Every strange sound in the wilderness made the boy jump, and the growing silence between them only heightened his anxiety. Eventually, he worked up the courage to ask, “Mister, what’s your name?”

“Carter Vaughn,” he answered absentmindedly.

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen. Eighteen. Maybe nineteen. Eighteen, probably.”

“Why don’t you know?”

“Why should I? It’s useless information.”

“You could celebrate your birthday,” the boy suggested.

Carter ignored him. Chatting with a kid was tedious, but there was no one else to talk to.

“Mister, are we going to die?” the boy asked in a quavering voice.

“I don’t know about you,” Carter replied coolly, “but I’m not.”

Tears welled up in Oliver’s eyes. “I don’t want to die. My mom and dad will come save me.”

Carter didn’t bother with false reassurances. “Don’t count on it. They won’t find you.”

“They will!” the boy insisted stubbornly. “They’re really smart and strong. They’ll come for me.”

Carter recalled the private jet crash. Clearly, this kid came from a wealthy family. If his parents had enough resources, it wasn’t impossible they’d launch a search. Still, waiting in one spot was a death sentence. Their best chance was to get out of the forest.

They trudged on for hours. By the time the sky darkened, Carter had finally led them out of the swampy marshlands and into relatively safer territory. He chose a defensible location against a large rock, where the open space in front of them offered clear visibility. After instructing Oliver to gather dry wood, Carter lit a fire.

The forest’s nighttime chill soon settled in. The temperature dropped to near freezing, and Carter’s clothes, though grimy and inadequate, still provided more warmth than the boy’s ragged attire. Even with the fire, Oliver shivered uncontrollably, his teeth chattering audibly.

“Unbelievable,” Carter muttered, watching the boy’s miserable state.

Pulling out his watch, Carter handed it to him. “Listen. I’m going to sleep for an hour. You’ll wake me when the time’s up.”

Oliver clutched the watch uncertainly, looking up at him with wide eyes.

“For the next hour, keep your eyes open. Watch our surroundings. If anything happens, wake me immediately. And if you fall asleep—” Carter’s voice dropped, cold and menacing, “—I’ll throw you into the fire.”

The boy flinched, nodding vigorously. “I won’t sleep! I promise!”

Satisfied, Carter leaned back and closed his eyes.

Not long after, he sensed movement nearby. Instinctively, he drew his knife and slashed out.

“Ah!” Oliver shrieked, freezing as the blade hovered inches from his throat.

“What the hell are you doing?” Carter snarled.

“I-I’m cold…” the boy stammered, tears streaming down his face.

Carter rolled his eyes. “If you’re cold, jump in the fire. Stay away from me when I’m asleep.”

But Oliver, trembling and desperate, crawled closer. “Mister, aren’t you cold?” His voice wavered as he tentatively moved toward Carter’s chest, seeking warmth.

Carter grabbed him by the collar and shoved him away. “You looking to die?”

Tears brimmed in the boy’s eyes. “I’m so cold! Mommy, I’m so cold—” He broke into heart-wrenching sobs, his small body wracked with grief and exhaustion.

Carter’s patience wore thin. “You want me to shut you up?”

Between choked cries, Oliver wailed, “You’re mean! I hate you! You’re a bad person! I’m cold! I’m so cold!” His cries grew louder, echoing through the forest.

Carter cursed under his breath. He wanted to shut the kid up but knew hitting him would only make it worse. Reluctantly, he grabbed Oliver and pulled him onto his lap.

The boy immediately quieted, his tears turning to sniffles as he clung to Carter’s waist.

Carter grumbled, “Fine. Just don’t move.” He unbuttoned his jacket and tucked the boy inside, their shared body heat providing a meager reprieve from the cold.

As Oliver nestled against him, Carter felt the boy’s tiny, fragile frame. He’d never held a child before, and the sensation was… strange. Soft. Warm. Delicate.

“Repeat what I just told you,” Carter commanded, his voice sharp.

“One hour,” Oliver whispered against his chest. “I’ll wake you in one hour.”

“If you fall asleep…” Carter warned, pressing the blade lightly against the boy’s leg.

Oliver tensed. “I won’t! I promise!”

Carter grunted, closed his eyes, and drifted into a fitful sleep, the boy’s small warmth a surprising comfort against the encroaching cold.