Page 182 of Famine

And I bring Ana back to me.

Chapter 45

Ana

When I wake, I’m alone.

I glance around me at the room, which is bare save for the sculpture of Our Lady of Aparecida and the glass and pitcher of water resting on the bedside table.

I sit up, feeling weak and hungry, but otherwise … not too bad. After a moment, I reach for my neck. It’s covered in soft gauze, which I pry away.

Last I remember, this cut had been badly infected.

The bandages and poultice fall away, and I begin to probe around my wound. It doesn’t feel swollen and angry. In fact, it feels … it feels mostly healed.

How is that possible?

I take in my surroundings again. Vaguely I remember Famine carrying me into this place, and then there was that fun pee incident outside, but everything else seems like a hazy fever dream. I think I made some pretty proclamations because I’d been sure I was going to die.

My lips are chapped and gummy, and discreetly I wipe them off before grabbing the glass of water next to me. In five deep swallows, I finish the thing off.

For a good few minutes, I sort of just sit there and let my mind catch up.

I didn’t die.

Can’t kill this cockroach.

I take a dainty whiff of my formerly clean dress and cringe. This outfit is the thing that needs to die.

Kicking off the damp bedsheets, I slide out of bed. My legs are shaky and honestly, I feel a little woozy, but I power forward anyway, slipping out of the room. A man passes by the hallway, and he gasps when he sees me, making the sign of the cross.

“Is this your house?” I ask.

He nods. “My wife treated you.”

I give him a soft smile. “Thank you both for the care and the bed.”

Still giving me a strange look, he nods.

I point towards the back of the house. “Is this the way out?”

Again, he gives a shaky nod.

“Thanks.” I leave the startled man there, a little unnerved by his reaction.

Outside, the sky is full of big, billowy clouds. I breathe in the wet, earthen smell of the land. Something innate pulls me past the scattered buildings and towards the fields beyond.

The sugarcane here is a bright, blinding green. And there, right in the middle of it, is the horseman.

I’ve seen this before, in my dreams. Famine stands among the crops, scythe in hand, and it’s like a premonition.

This is where he unmakes the world, one blade of grass at a time.

As though he senses me behind him, the horseman turns.

Right now, I see clearly that Famine is awhatrather than awho. He doesn’t look human. Not even a little bit. He’s painfully, achingly beautiful, but he’s no mortal man.

“You know,” he says softly, “this entire field was dead only hours ago.”

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