“Right here, boy,”

I chirrup.

 

Oblivious, the omega of the pack rests on his haunches where I’ve knelt before him, one broken ear folded over. He’s scrawny, ribs like sticks stabbing out from tender leaves. He’s been slowest to the scraps and you can tell.

​

“Stupid boy,” I go to graze his head, and to my surprise he allows it, even leaning in

with half-shut eyes. It’s as if he needs it or something – contact, touch, whatever – and that more than anything else is why he has to be the first to go.

​

Without further warning I lift high my railsword . . .