Hoshor Plains and i'm sorry that i lie when i talk to you

The stranger lingers, echoing his own whine, and he shivers a little at the sound. He sucks in another breath at the question that follows, wondering if he can answer. He knows he should; the answer sits at the tip of his tongue, and for a moment he almost thinks it will come — but it doesn't. All he can manage is another whine, eyes squeezing shut against the sudden hot sting of tears. Too useless to even accept help, he thinks; maybe he'd be better off dead.