The realization struck harder than any weapon.
If she does nothing now, Sara thought, her mind racing, her heart pounding, she will lose Anaya forever.
Her hands, which had been holding the bundle of vegetables and meat, fell limp at her sides. The food tumbled to the ground, scattering across the cracked wooden floor, potatoes rolling, carrots spilling, the loaf of bread landing with a soft thud. Sara did not notice. She could not look away from the sight before her.
Anaya lay on a thin mattress in the corner of the hut, her small body barely visible beneath a ragged blanket.
Her skin was pale, too pale, the pale of someone who had lost too much blood, the pale of someone who was slipping away. Her red hair, which had once been bright and wild, lay flat and dull against the pillow. Her face, which had once been filled with determination, was slack and empty, her eyes closed, her lips dry and cracked.
And then Sara saw the wounds.
