The boy woke screaming.
Dana jerked upright from her chair, rifle already in her hands before her eyes found focus.
The sound cut through the farmhouse like breaking glass—raw, desperate, the kind of scream that came from somewhere deeper than pain.
It stopped as suddenly as it started.
Dana listened, finger on the trigger.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
Then she heard it: rapid breathing, the wet sound of someone trying not to sob.
She'd moved him to the root cellar after dark.
The kitchen table was too exposed, too visible from the windows.
If someone came looking, they'd find an empty house and bloodstains that could be explained away.
Maybe.
Dana pulled on her boots and grabbed the kerosene lamp.
The cellar door stood open, a black mouth yawning beneath the floorboards.
"You awake down there?"
No answer.
Just that ragged breathing, like a trapped animal.
Dana descended the wooden steps, lamp held high.
The boy huddled against the far wall, knees drawn to his chest.
His eyes reflected the lamplight—wide, unfocused, seeing something that wasn't there.
"Bad dream?" she asked.
The boy's gaze snapped to her face.
For a moment, he looked lost.
Then his features hardened, and he straightened against the stone wall.
"I'm fine."
His voice was hoarse, younger than she'd expected.
Definitely fourteen, maybe less.
Dana hung the lamp on its hook.
The cellar felt smaller with both of them in it, the stone walls pressing close.
Shelves lined the space, filled with mason jars and canvas sacks.
The air smelled of earth and old apples.
"You remember how you got here?" she asked.
The boy nodded.
His fingers found the bandages around his ribs, probing gently.
"Good. Means your head's working."
Dana crossed her arms.
"Now we talk."
The boy waited.
Smart enough to let her set the terms.
"You stay down here until you can walk without bleeding," Dana said.
"I'll feed you. Keep the wound clean. When you're healed, you leave."
"When?"
"Before the first snow. Two weeks, maybe three."
The boy's jaw tightened.
"And if I can't?"
"Then you freeze. Or starve. Your choice."
Dana watched his face for a reaction.
He absorbed the words without flinching, as if he'd expected them.
This wasn't his first time depending on someone's charity.
"I don't have anywhere to go," he said.
"Not my problem."
The boy studied her in the lamplight.
His eyes were dark brown, almost black.
Old eyes in a young face.
"Why did you help me?"
Dana had been asking herself the same question.
The smart answer was that she hadn't thought it through.
The honest answer was worse.
"Seemed like the right thing to do at the time."
"And now?"
"Now I'm wondering if I made a mistake."
The boy almost smiled.
Almost.
"My name's Luca."
Dana didn't offer hers in return.
Names created obligations, made things personal.
She'd learned that lesson the hard way.
"Get some sleep," she said.
"I'll bring food when you wake up."
She climbed the stairs and closed the cellar door, then dragged a kitchen chair over it.
Not to keep him in—he was too weak to climb the stairs anyway.
But sounds carried, and she needed to know if he moved around.