"Steam! Pots up!"
I catch the first wolf—wheezing, gray climbing his throat. Force him sitting against the supply crate.
"Up. Keep your chest up."
Hide-blanket. Pot underneath. His face goes over the steam.
"Breathe."
He coughs hard. Body seizing under the wool. I count breath cycles—one, two, three—the rattle changes pitch on the fourth.
"Next pot! Move him aside, keep him covered—"
Another wolf hits the dirt beside me. Older. Gray past her collarbones. Faster now—pot, blanket, steam, breathe—
"Anyone gray, anyone wheezing—under a blanket. Don't wait for me. You've watched me do this. Do it."
"Got it."
Maren hauls water from the trough. Soren feeds the fire. Two more pots running. Three. Then four.
Back to wounds between steam patients. Arrow in a thigh—pull, pack, move.
Check the steam stations. The pup is sitting up on his own, gray fading, breathing rough but breathing. The older woman next to him—better. Two more under blankets. Dara overseeing both.
"Mel!" Dara. Sharp. "This one's not coming back."
The wolf under the blanket is gray to his shoulders. Eyes rolled. Body slack against the supply crate. I lift the wool—steam hits my face—press my ear to his chest.
Faint. Slow. Slowing.
"Maren, hold him up. Higher. Higher—"
We try. The cough doesn't catch. His chest jerks once and gives up.
I let go.
"Mel."
"Fuck!"
My hands are shaking. Not from fear—from gripping and pulling and pressing for however long this has been goingon.
My fingers ache. My wrists. The webbing between my thumb and forefinger split open at some point—stinging now, blood mixing with everyone else's blood.
My hands are already on the next one—Nera, I think, hard to tell with all the blood covering her face and chest. Deep slash across her ribs.
"Hold still. I need to see how deep."
"There's more of them." She's gasping. Blood in her teeth. "So many more than we—"
"I know. Hold still."
"We can't—"
"If you keep talking I can't work. Shut up or bleed out."
She shuts up.
