a falling through

Morale, she knew, was a weighty thing.

That was why she had held her tongue, waited until they were alone. There were yearlings among their numbers, and younger. She had never been the maternal type, but her heart hurt for them. For all of them. For this reason alone, she would not die among them.

Junkyard Dog frowned at Dogmeat, then turned to gently touch her nose to his cheek. His words seemed to add to her resolve. She now felt brave enough to die, though her fear was great.

Junkyard Dog shook her head. "More mouths than food we can steal," she told him in her rough voice. Junkyard Dog was trying to hold off the inevitable. She had to tell him, but she was afraid. Saying it aloud would make it true, give it a corporeal form in her steaming breath. "I am not long. Death follows me. I will go. They won't see. You will all live on." That was the best she could do, to die away from them.