"Dad..?"
The word came out small, like it didn't belong in a moment like this.
The teenager stood there, frozen, staring at his father on the ground. Harold's body twitched once, then again, weaker this time. Blood soaked through his shirt, dark and spreading, pooling beneath him.
"Dad…???" He said again, his voice breaking.
No response.
The woman dropped to her knees beside Harold, her hands shaking as she pressed them against the wound like she could hold his life in place.
"No, no, no— stay with me, Harold, stay with me—!" she cried, her voice cracking as tears poured down her face.
The men around them moved in, tense, urgent.
"Let him go, Sheryl," one of them said, trying to pull her back. "We need to get him to camp for treatment."
Even as he said it, his eyes gave him away. He knew. They all knew.
Harold wasn't making it back anywhere.
The boy's hands curled into fists at his sides. His nails dug into his palms, but he didn't feel it.
His focus shifted.
