He makes a pained groan and starts panting again, and for a moment, he looks so pitiful that I know he’s sick. I’m not sure what sort of sickness it is, but I stare at the flushed pink shade in his ears and think about how he’d begged for a drink. I think about all the nights that I’d spent in the slave barracks with a dry mouth, begging for a drink myself. Just something to wet my throat and bring some relief from the never-ending heat of the desert moon. Damn it, I really am an idiot, I decide, because I’m going to help him. I wet a towel with cold water and cross the floor to his side,
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