15
One hundred fourteen.
That was how many slices of bread Spike had eaten since his captivity. And all he’d eaten.
Wasn’t that how half the pilgrims died? Scurvy? He checked a bruise-free patch of skin for signs of jaundice. Hard to tell if it was actually yellow or if that was just the glow from those damned lights. What were the other symptoms?
Achy joints? He had those. Fatigue? You betcha. Loss of appetite? He forgot what hungry felt like a long time ago. Loss of muscle mass? One hundred percent. But was it scurvy or just plain starvation? How long did scurvy take to develop, anyway? Six weeks? Seemed like he’d read that somewhere.
His button scraped the floor, crossing the T. He’d be long gone by the time anyone got this message, but hopefully, someway, it would get back to
