Still.
"Come on," I murmur. "Come on."
"What should it look like?" Keer asks. Just to me.
"The gray should be pulling back. Starting at the edges where the paste is thickest."
"It's not."
"I know it's not."
"What does that—"
"It means the paste is thin and it needs more time. It doesn't mean it's failing." I press my fingers to Fenna's forehead. Burning. "The fever's still climbing. That's right. That's what should be happening."
Ten minutes. The crowd has thinned—people drifting away to wait at a distance, but the core group stays. The mother is praying, whispered words I don't recognize, something old that catches in her throat and starts over every time she loses her place. Keer's breathing is controlled beside me. My knees are screaming from the packed dirt.
"There." I lean forward. "Look."
The gray edge closest to the paste. Lighter. Just barely—a hair's width of flushed pink where dead gray had been.
"Is that—" the mother starts.
"It's working. Give it time."
Slowly. Each check of her pulse, same answer. Too fast. Still too fast. But the gray retreats. The paste is working. Thin as it is, stretched past what it should be, it's working.
Minute fifty-two. Her breathing shifts. The rigid muscles go slack under my hands. Her skin cools under my palm.
"There." The word shakes coming out. "She's okay."
The mother gathers Fenna into her arms. The child iscrying—awake crying, hurting crying, but her eyes are open and she's reaching for her mother.
"Keep the wound clean." I push myself up, knees screaming, palms flat on the ground. "Don't let her scratch at it. I'll check it tomorrow."
"Thank you. I don't—thank you."
"Dara, can you show her how to change the dressing?"
"I know." Dara stands, touching the mother's elbow. "Come on. I'll show you."
They leave. The crowd parts, disperses. Normal sounds return—voices, footsteps, a cooking fire somewhere.
I should stand up. Walk away. Check on Fenna in an hour, wash the paste off my hands, figure out what comes next.
I don't move. Keer doesn't either.
Nugget appears at the edge of the clearing, sweater askew, pecking at something in the dirt.
The empty jar is on the ground between us. I pick it up, turn it over, tip it toward the light.
Nothing.
"That's it."
"How much is left?"
"What part of 'that's it' was unclear?" I hold up the jar. Tilt it. "None. Zero. I just used everything on that child. Everything I had left."
