There, beneath the torn fabric of his shirt, something is strapped across his body. A leather satchel. Old. Dust-covered. Bound close beneath his arm as if protecting it had mattered even more than saving himself from the sun.
Your pulse quickens.
The old man’s cracked lips part. “Water,” he whispers.
You almost laugh from the cruelty of it.
You have none left.
You gave him the last of it because leaving him there to die would have made you one more person in a long line of people who had already hardened around pain. And you could not do that. Not even now. Not when your own baby kicks softly beneath your hand, as if reminding you there is still something in you capable of choosing life when life is costly.
“I don’t have any more,” you say quietly.
He studies your face as if that answer tells him something important.
Then, with great effort, he reaches toward the satchel and tries to undo the strap. His fingers fail him twice. On the third attempt, you stop him.
“Don’t move,” you say. “You’re too weak.”
