Graves regained consciousness later that night. He climbed his way out of the foul-smelling dumpsite—though, truth be told, everywhere smelled foul in the outskirts, so it didn't make much difference.
Luckily, he made it home safely; the gang members hadn't laid an ambush for him.
Walking inside, he saw his mother. She was sitting on a makeshift chair that Graves had meticulously crafted himself. Looking up gradually from her uneasy slumber, she asked, "Graves, is that you?"
A worried expression was etched on her face—the same look she always had. His mom was pretty; her red hair danced just above her shoulders, and she had green eyes, small lips, and nice dimples whenever she managed to smile. The dim light of their room didn't offer much illumination, preventing her from seeing Graves's battered, sorry state. For the first time, he was happy to have a dim light.
"Yes, mom, it's me," Graves explained, telling a half-truth. "I went to sell some things at the market to get us some provisions. Here... I got a half-kilo of meat and seven NHF coins." He couldn't bring himself to tell her that he had risked his life for it.
She looked at him somberly, her expression saying, I know what you've really been doing.
"Graves," his mom replied in a low, tired voice. "Please be careful out there. I don't want to lose you. I..."
A sharp cough suddenly rattled her very being, making her entire body vibrate. When she pulled her hand away from her mouth, there was blood on her palm.
Graves quickly handed her a bowl of water. She shakily drank it, the contaminated water mixing with the blood in her mouth.
"Sorry, mom. Sorry you have to go through this," Graves murmured.
But realistically speaking, she wasn't the only one. Millions of people outside the Great Wall were dying from environmental poisoning. Lung failure was a normal thing here.
"It's not your fault, Graves. It's not your fault. I'll be fine soon," she said.
Graves had heard those exact words since he was a child. It wasn't as if he wasn't sick himself—everyone was. He just tried his best not to make it obvious to his mother.
"Were you able to eat?" Graves asked.
"Yes, I did," she replied.
"What did you eat?"
Honestly, it was a stupid question. He knew exactly what she had eaten; it was the only thing they could eat. But he had to continue the conversation—he just wanted to talk to her more. But whether his mom was naturally a woman of few words or the illness had made her that way, Graves did not know.
"I ate meat soup," she replied.
Graves nodded. The meat soup was usually made by boiling the meat for as long as possible, adding a few scavenged leaves and a pinch of salt. Having salt was considered a treasure outside the walls.
"I left some for you. I am tired," his mom whispered.
Graves sighed. The damn illness was draining the very life out of her. Getting up, he helped her lie down on the floor, which was lined with old cardboard boxes. She fell asleep almost instantly.
Some time later, Graves finished his meal, chewing in the dark of the quiet room.
Damn, tasteless, he thought.
Then again, how would one even know if something tasted bad when they had never eaten anything flavorful in their life?