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refused to hold much weight, and something was really, really wrong with me. I banged the trailer door open just like a reeling drunk come creeping home at last and hauled my recalcitrant limb up like deadwood. There were antibiotics in the cabinet above the postage-stamp counter, and I could work out a dosage after…
    They looked up from my bed. Huck’s mouth a little open, those teeth gleaming wickedly. Oscar, his coat shedding muck and dried blood—Aussies are wash and wear—hopped off the bed, bounding to greet me.
    I don’t know what would have happened if I’d been able to stay conscious. As it was, I went down hard, and the last thing I heard was Huck making a strange hooting noise as Oscar nosed at the bandage on my leg, nipping sharply to get under it and lick at the wound. Then the boy’s hands were on me, pulling and tugging, and I passed out.
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    Nightmare, leering faces and twisted scraping sounds. I burned and thrashed while outside the fire crackled, and the things, sensing our weakness, pressed close. They did not attack again, though, even when the little one darted out of the trailer’s shell to put more wood on the fire. Clouds loomed overhead, delaying dawn and threatening rain, and the dog’s low growl thrummed all through me.
    Skeins of meaning unfolded. The sound was a warning. Something out there, the dog was saying , nastybad badnasty ugly, alpha wake up, when alpha wake up?
    A short yip of a reply from outside, a wash of feral scent. Warm thing good, that scent said, a complex tapestry of fear and determination . Big bad no come, big good better soon. Better soon.
    Struggling to make coherent sounds, to get up and protect them, to get to the antibiotics. My voice cracking as I raved, weakly, secrets spilling out—the towns since I’d hit the road, all the death and the terror and the futility, and finally shooting the fat survivalist while Oscar howled in the too-small, filthy cage, the Taser falling from the fat fuck’s hand as I swore, no, not the dog, you sonofabitch, you will not hurt that dog …
    The fever clawed, sweat and sick pouring off me in waves, the sheets soaked and I was going to die here in this tincan hole, the boy and the dog were going to have to make it on their own, die, die in this hole, die, die die die.
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    Crusted guck gluing my eyelids down. A titanic stink, reeling flashes of color and meaning inside my aching skull. Cool water splashed on my cheek, and the bottle tipped up. He almost drowned me before I pushed his hand away and grabbed at the bottle, drained it. My stomach rebelled, tried to hork it all up, and settled for filling my nose with stinging bile-laced fluid.
    Oscar, snuggled against my side, wriggled and licked my face. Licked and licked, as my hand fell away with the empty water bottle. I tried blinking, had to drop the bottle to rub at the matted filth over me.
    When I could open my eyes, blinking against weak cloudy sunlight coming through the trailer’s half-pulled blinds, Oscar shoved his nose further in my face and began assiduously cleaning me. “Ugh,” I managed. My mouth felt funny. Every muscle aching-weak, like I’d had influenza or something.
    Antibiotics. A deep croak came out of my throat.
    The boy loomed above me. His wide dark eyes were the same, and he hunched uncertainly on the back of the dinette booth, perched just like a vulture.
    Now there was an uncomfortable thought. “P-pills,” I managed.
    He tilted his head, his hair moving uneasily. “Piz,” he mimicked, trying out the word. Pointed at Oscar. “Piz?”
    â€œThat’s Oscar.” I moved, impatiently. I was hungry, and sore all over, but I didn’t feel that bad. My upper lip was crusted with something hard.
    I felt for the bandage with my free hand. My fingertips wormed through the hole I’d cut in my jeans, and met cool, unmarked flesh.
    â€œOzzz-cur.” The boy