Billy stole towards the ruins, the meat and linen weighing heavy. They were wrong; the flashes, the gunfire, the screams, days old, but still too close to be ignored.
“You going somewhere, son?”
His father materialized from the gloom. Billy froze.
“You think we wouldn’t miss these supplies? We need them too.” He shook his head. “To think, I blamed it on the dog.”
A dry, sickly cough made him turn. The wounded man had crawled from rubble, his uniform, a tattered rag. A long breath rattled in his chest and he was still.
Billy tugged his dad’s limp fingers, eyes shining.
“Please, don’t go. He has friends.”
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