I buried my face in his coarse mane of hair. The beast whimpered again, but didn’t pull away from me. My fingers delved deeper into the thick fur. Right now, he was all I had, my only friend in the world.
He abided my embrace for a few moments, the swish of his long, looping tail over the rocky ground a comforting sound. Until he decided he had enough. Never one to stick around for long, he licked my face and departed. I listened to the light clack of his nails, not worrying if I would see him again. He’d be back. He’d gone through the trouble of finding me. I was confident he would return.
I curled up beside Fowler to wait, forcing sips of water down his throat and feeling his scalding-hot brow, holding out hope that his fever might yet break. That he might be immune to the dweller’s toxin. It could happen. Perhaps. In this world, anything was possible. The last seventeen years had taught me that.
Digger returned a few hours later, perhaps more, perhaps less. It was hard to know. Usually I was a good judge of passing time, but I felt like I was in a haze where time ceased to exist.
The pungent scent of his fur and clatter of his nails announced his arrival—along with the hare clamped between his teeth. He dropped the dead animal at my feet and then sank to his haunches, tail swishing, waiting for his praise, expecting it as his due.
“Good boy, Digger,” I crooned, petting his head before turning and dressing the animal. Even though Sivo had usually performed the task, I knew what to do: from skinning the animal to preparing a fire and setting the hare over the flame to cook. I busied myself, glad for the task. It beat watching Fowler with my heart in my throat, jerking at every ragged breath, terrified it would be his last.
As I prepared the hare, Digger shifted his weight and inched closer to where Fowler rested. He sniffed at him cautiously. I paused over the hare, tensing, making sure Digger’s intentions were friendly and he wasn’t going to take a bite out of Fowler. He continued sniffing, nails scratching rock as he edged closer and closer, and then there was a slight snuffing and blowing against Fowler’s hair.
I half-smiled, suspecting he was trying to rouse him. Digger gave up with a huff and then settled down close to Fowler. It made my chest ache a little—that this wild beast could find tenderness inside him not only for me but for Fowler, too. It made the world seem just a little bit better. Not entirely dark and hopeless. A little less bleak.
I focused on cooking the hare over the fire, mindful not to burn myself. I couldn’t afford the injury. I had Fowler to tend. It was up to me to pull him out of this. And I would. I had to.
Cooking was a risk, I knew, and not because I might burn myself. The aroma could attract dwellers willing to risk the rocks, but I needed the food. I needed to keep my strength up.
They would not risk the rocks. We were safe from them for now. I let the mantra roll through me, needing to believe it. It was my sole thought as the hare finished cooking over the small fire. I sat beside Fowler, coaxing more water down his throat, talking to him, letting him hear my voice.
Digger reclined nearby, his great furred back a warm pillow alongside my body. It almost felt safe, warm and comfortable. If only Fowler weren’t fighting for his life.
Digger’s hackles flared up an instant before the low rumble of his growl filled our small sanctuary. My apprehension was misplaced. I didn’t need to fear dwellers finding us. I patted his back, feeling every hair there standing on end. “What is it, boy?”
Digger hopped to his feet and trotted out of the cave to investigate. I bit my lip, resisting the impulse to call him back, even if I did feel alone and vulnerable. Indeed, I had no wish to make a sound at all, to make myself a more obvious target.
Instead, I reached for my knife again, all of me as tense as a slat of wood. My hand flexed around the knife’s edge, palm growing slippery with sweat.
My free hand reached for Fowler, clasping the hard curve of his shoulder. Even like this he still felt vital and strong. Maybe that was simply the fever. The heat of his skin imbued with warmth in the chill of the cave. Warmth that intimated health and comfort and well-being.
I patted him for reassurance—for me, I supposed. He was out of his head with fever, unaware of me.
I felt every sound. The flap of a bat’s wings in the far distance outside the cave. Breaths panting in exertion. The sound of multiple footsteps reached my ears long before I heard voices to alert me that men were approaching. I knew their gait, so very different from the dragging steps of dwellers.
I released my grip on Fowler and lurched to my feet, my blade brandished before me in hands that were slippery with sweat but surprisingly steady.