A barrage of cold, cruel questions utterly shattered Ron's last shred of delusion.
He was wracked by a violent shiver, and his eyes finally focused. "I… I don't want to die…"
A hint of desperate resolve had crept into his hoarse voice.
"Then cut the fucking bullshit and get your ass in gear!" Uncle Scar snarled, gritting his teeth. He propped himself against the wall with his good hand, trying to stand, but slid back down from the weakness and pain. "Pack our stuff! Anything valuable! Food! Medicine! Quick! We don't have much time! Grove could come back at any moment, or send someone to check!"
The shouting jolted Ron, and he scrambled to his feet on pure instinct.
But fear and the toll of the recent life-or-death struggle left his limbs feeling like jelly, his mind a chaotic mess.
He stumbled around the room like a headless chicken, tripping over the corpse and nearly falling. He then froze, staring blankly, with no idea what to do or what to grab first.
