The fever raged for a day, and then abated into headache and sweat. The child regained his consciousness feeling cold and clammy, his bloodshot blue eyes blinking confusedly at the unfamiliar surroundings. For a split second, he felt a surge of panic, knowing that his lethargy was sure to be punished, but remembering that he was not home, he relaxed, unclenching his tiny fists.
The tall, sturdy woman he saw doing the housework noticed he was awake and came over to his side with a steaming metal mug. "Chicken soup broth," she told him encouragingly. He took the container with weak hands, wincing at its hotness, and the woman quickly retrieved it. She held it up to his lips, pinker than normal from irritation, and he took a tentative sip, forcing the liquid down his sore throat.
"Do you feel better?" she asked. He nodded. "How did you get here?"
The boy took another hot swallow before replying in a soft, raspy voice. "I . . . Father brought me here. He left me on the street . . . He left and I was alone, and it rained, and I hid under a roof. I don't know how I got here."
"My son found you last night."
"Where is he?" the child looked around, expecting, with infantile conviction, his savior to suddenly appear.
"He is sleeping. It is late night."
"You're not sleeping," the child observed. The woman laughed. "What is your name, boy?"
"Arkarian. But my father doesn't like it, so he calls me Luc."
"He doesn't like it? Did your mother name you then?" She tilted the cup towards his mouth and he drank.
"Yes, but she died, and they gave me to a church, and the monks took care of me and they told me they found me on their doorstep when I was just days old. But now I'm older, I'm four! And then the monks gave me to mother and father and I lived with them and then father started hitting us."
The child related this with indifference, unperturbed by the abuse so long as it was not immediate. Then he sank back onto the thin pillow, weakened by the strain of the conversation, and closed his bright cerulean eyes with a sleepy smile. The woman looked at him sympathetically, wishing there was a way to alleviate his suffering. She pulled the downy hair back from his sweaty forehead with tenderness.
"Good night, Arkarian."