That morning, the hut door creaked open with a groan louder than usual.
Boris stepped inside with heavy, deliberate strides, followed by the two bandits who always carried clubs. His eyes swept the room, counting them one by one. Loy was already sitting up, with Riri by his side. Tomas and Sany still lay in the corner, motionless.
"Wake up!" Boris's voice thundered. "Everyone up! Get to work!"
Tomas didn't move. Neither did Sany.
Boris's brow furrowed. He marched to the corner and kicked Tomas's leg. "Get up, fatty! You think this is a place to laze around?"
Tomas didn't stir. His chest rose and fell at an agonizingly slow pace. His face was ghastly, his lips parched. Loy could see the scars on Tomas's arms, his back—everywhere. The once-sturdy body was now nothing but skin stretched over bone, save for his bloated, malnourished stomach.
"He can't," Loy said. His voice was raspy, but he forced it to be firm.
Boris turned. "What?"
