Greatwater Lake she was afraid of dreadful prophecies

the frilly yellow faces of marigolds open up to him in the grass. they are sallow and more jaundiced than gold, but he trots back to scylla with a handful, expectant and more than a little pleased with himself.
she's already started soaking her foot in the cold lakeshore. with the grime and blood off, the true extent of the damage is visible— half of the foot isn't even there. duly impressed, he sets down the marigolds within her reach and whistles out of whatever counterfeit empathy chugging along in his brain. scylla the two-toed. scylla the club-footed. 
truth be told, he isn't sure why he is helping her either. survivalists did not indulge in morals too often and neither did he, but he was a different case entirely. do you reckon, he starts, after a thoughtful pause, there are packs nearby? there was a clear difference between war medics and doctors. one studied for 6 months and the other studied for a decade. he briefly thinks back to the steel-toed elks, remembers the graze on his side— i could be dying. i could have had my ribs sticking through the skin— and shudders.