Deciding to bring a stranger home was not on my to-do list today. But what else was I supposed to do? Leave him out there to finish dying? I might be a selfish and individualistic girl, but I’m not heartless. And it would be stupid of me if I treated this boy like how the humans have treated me. Bringing him back is the right thing to do… Right? I grunt as I pull his body along in the pallet I had fashioned for carrying the pile of clay. My mouth turns down in a disappointed scowl. A sour yellow tightens my chest as I think about the hard work that is now drying on the banks of the bog. At least I know my plan for the clay is going to work. I would just have to try again tomorrow- or maybe in a couple of days. I roll my sore shoulders before I straighten my back again and squat, pulling the pallet another few steps.

“At least you’re not too heavy,” I mumble between winded breaths. The boy’s limp and nearly skeletal body hangs halfway off the stretcher, his feet and legs dragging along in the dirt. I let out another labored breath as I pull him along another few steps. It was at about the halfway point back to the house that I remembered that our outdoor bath was still mostly intact. It had been so cold these last few months that I had resolved to bathe Mother and myself indoors. But I’m sure that I could just clean out the debris and boil enough water to fill the inlaid clay tub so I could maybe get this poor kid warm- and wash some of the grime from his hair. My nose wrinkles at the stench wafting from him. I’m beginning to get used to it, but I am nowhere near accepting the smell. I figure that with the way he smells- and that his hair is mostly a matted mess, that lice probably don’t want anything to do with him. I know enough about the disgusting bugs to remember that they prefer to lay their eggs on clean strands of hair.

A while later, I have the boy and the stretcher laying out on the bare bit of dirt between our house and the small, in-ground bath. I grunt as I lift the bath’s wooden cover that helps keep the basin from getting too dirty. I lean down and begin to dig out the stray leaves and grass that had somehow made its way in. Pushing myself back up, I dust my hands off on my already filthy pants and walk the short distance to our overturned soup pot, and hoist it up. I don’t usually bring the kettle inside, since it’s too heavy, but today was a day of exceptions. Carefully, I carry it over to the stream that runs just past the first rows of trees beside our house. I lower it down into the deepest part, wincing at the icy water that flows over my heated hands. Only then do I realize how dirty I am. The orange clay has stained my hands and arms and pieces of it have dried on my legs and face. Sucking in a quick breath I plunge my arms into the water and yelp at the sudden briskness. The frigid, rushing water sends chills over my entire body as I quickly wash what I can, trying, and failing, to fight back a shiver.

Fully awake now, I struggle to lift the heavy pot out of the stream. It takes me several tries and an unfortunate slip into the stream that soaks the bottom hem of my pants, but I manage to roll it up onto the bank. Using the same waddling maneuver that got the behemoth out of the stream, I bring the full pot inside the house. The sudden change in temperature makes a line of sweat bead up across my brows and immediately makes me feel every ounce of tired as I should be. Shaking my head hard, I clench my jaw. I still have work to do and right now is not the time to let sleep consume my thoughts.

“Nobody but me,” I grunt out as I twist the pot onto the elevated plank I set up for just this reason. The platform allows my small, four-foot self to hook the pot’s handle onto the stationary peg over the fire pit. “Nobody-” I wheeze out, pushing the last bit. “But… me!” I let out a rough growl as I push the last bit and the handle clicks into place. I stumble over onto my knees, my breath coming out in ragged bursts, and an exhausted laugh escapes out of my chest. This damned boy better live and better be grateful for everything I’m doing to keep him alive. I shakily stand and take a few cleansing breaths. Reflexively rolling my shoulders again, I step back out into the winter afternoon.

The sun is just beginning to hover over the trees to the west, and I know that once the sun touches the top and starts to disappear, the temperature will go with it. I walk over to the boy who is still passed out on my makeshift cot, squatting next to him to check if he’s still alive. I lower my cold hands to his neck and place two fingers just under his jaw to feel for his pulse. Mother had taught me about pulse points when I was only five. She had always thought anatomy was a very important part of my education. After the schools wouldn’t allow me to attend, she dedicated herself to teaching me the skills I needed. I silently thank her for her wisdom and knowledge as I feel his slow and weak pulse beneath my fingertips. He is still alive. That inevitable thank you was looking more and more possible now.

I move my hands from his neck and up to his face to assess for wounds or sores that I would need to be mindful of while bathing him. I’m not averse to sickness, or even another person’s body, but I still feel like the more I know about his state, the easier it will be for me. That sounds logical, which justifies the invasion of his personal space in my mind. I slowly push back the hair covering his face and my stomach rises into my throat. A soft and pitiful blue tightens itself around my heart and squeezes.

The left side of his face is blotchy with scars that look like old burn marks. The harsh purples and reds stand out against his alabaster skin. I bite down on my lower lip as I gently run my thumb over the long scar above his eyebrow. The small, black hairs there are greasy but soft and my stomach clenches as I speculate how he got himself into this mess. I close my eyes and refuse to cry. I can’t let myself feel for this kid. I have to stay detached for as long as I can.

A voice in the back of my mind whispers a reminder of what happened to the birds I had rescued after a bad storm when I was eight. The voice reminded me of feeding them and caring for them, only to lose them to a bobcat a week later. I clench my jaw and push the voice from my mind.

“Not today,” I say under my breath.

I clear my throat and lower myself into the shallow tub and begin to wipe out the bits of dirt in the bottom of the basin. A few minutes later, I’m satisfied with my work and I hop back up and walk back into the house to check the water temperature inside the cauldron. It’s been about twenty or so minutes, so the water should be at least warm. The fire I had set up earlier in the day was still going strong and was doing a great job at keeping the small space warm. I dip the tip of my finger into the pot and quickly jerk it out.

“Perfect temperature for boiling potatoes,” I muse. I grab a small bucket from across the room and dip it into the hot water and carry it outside. I quickly pour the water into the tub and return for another scoop. I repeat this a few times until the basin is filled halfway with steaming water. I quickly move over to the boy and begin taking his clothes off- which is a lot easier than I thought it would be. His clothes practically disintegrate off of his body and my brow furrows in pity. I gingerly bring him atop the stretcher to the edge of the tub and angle his feet so I can lower him into the water. This method only works halfway as his lax shoulders slip out of my grip and I yelp as I go to catch him by the back of his arm. Luckily, the side of my calf catches his head before it can strike the frozen ground.

As his body lowers into the bath, he lets out a soft groan, and his face scrunches into muted discomfort. I worry for a second about whether the water is too hot or too cold, but after a few seconds his face relaxes and he weakly brings his arms to wrap around his body. That’s when he begins to violently shiver, the water sloshing a bit as his small frame rocks the water.

Instinctively, I lay my hands on his bone-thin shoulders and quietly shush him until he relaxes entirely. Then, my heart leaps and tears prickle in my eyes as he whimpers a quiet, “Mother?” My nose tingles as I feel the onslaught of emotion wash over me, tears threatening to spill. So much for staying detached.

I look down into the water and see that it’s gone nearly black with grime. I click my tongue and lay the boy’s head back against the side of the tub. Grabbing the water bucket, I quickly scoop out as much water as I can and begin to refill it with fresh water from inside the house. It’s a touch too hot for my liking, but this kid has to get warmed up quickly and I need to get him properly washed before the sun sets. I make quick work of scrubbing the grime from his body, only having to replace the water another two times as I clean him.

I take note of the other burns across his shoulders and neck that reach up into his scalp. His feet are calloused and rough with use. He probably hasn’t worn covers over his feet in years. He looks younger than I am- possibly eight, maybe nine. As I switch out the water again I idly wonder how long he’s been out in the wilds on his own and how on this green earth he had survived.

Pouring in a new bucket of hot water, the boy whimpers again and his eyes finally begin to flutter open. I set the bucket down and reach for the bar of body soap I swiped on my last trip into town. Lathering up my hands, I breathe in the scent of lye and lemon. I don’t use soap very often, but it’s definitely my favorite smell. Sitting behind him, his head propped against my calf, I begin to gently scrub the boy’s hair, noticing the clumps that fall away from his head. The boy winces as my fingers graze one of the burns across his scalp and I stop and click my tongue again.

Not wanting to scare him, I silently rinse my hands in the basin and quickly walk in and back out of my house, carrying a pair of freshly sharpened shears. Sitting back down and sighing, I take a small clump of his matted hair and begin to snip away at what I can. The boy doesn’t move to stop me, nor does he say anything. I work like this for a few minutes, trying my best to keep the haircut as short but uniform as possible. When I’m done, I rinse the shears off in the water and set them aside. Grabbing the bar of soap, I get to work on cleaning his scalp again. His hair is surprisingly thick in places where it’s not scarred. Once I’m satisfied with his cleanliness, I grab the last bucket of water.

“Close your eyes and hold your breath,” I say quietly. The boy goes still before I pour the bucket of water on top of his head. Once it’s empty, I lean down and hook my arms under his, and pull him up to sit on the flush edge of the bath. I quickly wrap a clean sheet over his body as he begins to shiver. I start to help him stand, taking a step back as he stands on his own. Even covered in a sheet he reminds me of a fawn- gangly and unstable.

Hunched over, he’s smaller than I am. Granted, I’m half-goblin and am short to begin with, but this frail boy in front of me is the epitome of small. His heavily lidded eyes rise to meet mine and I try to smile kindly. His dulled sight doesn't seem to fully see me and I press my lips into a thin line, the blue around my heart squeezing tighter. I place my hand on his back and he shuffles along with me into my house. The sun slowly lowers behind the trees, and the sounds of the forest quiet into a soft buzz as animals hunker down for the cold night. I shut our front door with a very solid thud.

Once fully inside, I lower him into the most comfortable chair we own that sits close to the fire and throw another clean blanket over him. I reach for an old pair of my Father’s socks and roll them over the boy’s feet. Luckily Mother and I didn’t get rid of any of Father’s clothes. The socks are too big for the boy’s feet, but I fold them over twice and nod at the fit. I stand and take a step around the chair, moving a few stacks of baskets around until I find the basket full of old nightshirts. Finding one with the least amount of moth holes, I sidestep back towards the boy. I look down at him and my brow furrows. His breaths are ragged and shallow, his body shivering for more warmth. He’s sleeping fitfully and I know I can’t just leave him like that.

I sling the nightshirt over my shoulder and rub my forehead with my palms. Reaching out, I undo some of the blanket and he groans. I grab the nightshirt and lift it over his head and my eyes prickle again as the neck of the shirt nearly goes over both of his shoulders. Holding my breath to keep from sobbing, I pick his arm up and feed it through an armhole. The sleeves are too long for him too, but I had expected that. After putting his other arm in I quickly shrug on a pair of undershorts for him. He wakes a bit at this and his eyes meet mine before his brows rise in a dazed surprise.

“Hello,” he croaks, his eyes sliding shut again. I grimace and grit my teeth as I finish dressing him. I quickly set out a pallet on the floor next to my and Mother’s bed and lay the boy down and cover him with two blankets before stepping back outside into the cold night. Safely alone, the floodgates open and I begin sobbing. I collapse to the ground in exhaustion and pity and my body is wracked with nearly uncontrollable sorrow. I wonder if this is what every twelve-year-old has to go through in their life.

My mind flits to Mother and Father, to the baby birds, and to the girl I had once called a friend. I think about how tired I am and if my eyes are going to be swollen in the morning. I mourn for the roof of our house that will have to wait again to be repaired. Lastly, I think of the small and helpless, starving child that I had just rescued from the bogs. If I had left him there… I let out another nauseating sob and my heart feels as if it’ll burst at any time.

I allow myself a good cry, only calming when a breeze caresses my face, causing the tears on my chin to dry and itch. I pull a dirty rag from out of my pocket and wipe my dripping nose. I sit quietly in the dirt in front of my home and stare up at the cold moon. I wonder if she sees me and if she would reject a wretch like me. I’m stupid for rescuing someone when I struggle to keep myself and my Mother alive. How am I supposed to mend or care for a child when I can barely care for us? The moon in all her benevolent beauty would certainly look down on us- on me, like we’re insects.

I push myself up using my knees and shove the dirty kerchief back into my pocket. My stomach growls loudly, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since noon. I put my hand over my hollow stomach and nod, promising that I’ll eat at least one of the roasted potatoes before going to bed. Dusting my hands off again, I walk back around to the back of the house, taking care to empty the tub before securing the lid back on top. Once I’ve finished cleaning up and replacing my tools to their proper places, I step back into my heated home. In the far corner, I see Mother’s chest move rhythmically through the curtains that separate our sleeping area from the living area. In front of that lies a small lump of bundled-up blankets. The boy must have shifted in his sleep and curled himself into a ball.

Taking care to walk quietly, I step to the right and begin to undress. I set my soiled clothes into a shallow basket of rags and slowly run my hands through my dirty hair twice, my walnut-colored hair snagging in my fingers both times. Not feeling any ticks or other bugs, I set to scrubbing the sweat and remaining dirt from my armpits, neck, and face; thanking the Gods that it wasn’t a certain week of the month for me. I grab the nightgown that I wore last night and give it a good sniff. It could use a wash tomorrow, but it would suffice for tonight. Mother and I didn’t share a blanket and I felt less bad about going to bed even though I am a little bit dirty.

I step around the pallet on the floor and reach over to the covered pot on the small countertop where I prepare food. Taking the lid off, the smell of cooked potatoes gently wafts up to greet me. My stomach angrily growls again and I smile a bit at its incessant nagging.

“Yes, yes- I know, you’re hungry. Patience, my friend,” I whisper to my abdomen. I grab a small lump and pull it out. Securing the lid back in place, I sit down in the chair by the fire and tear away at the butcher paper that I had rolled each potato in. I set the paper aside, trying to unwrinkle the edges so I could use it again, and take a small bite of the roasted spud. It’s cold, but still slightly sweet. I don’t have the luxury of butter or salt, but a good roasted potato is the perfect thing after the kind of day I had. My eyes prickle again and my face flushes a bit, embarrassed at the wave of emotion. I sniff and wipe the small tears from my eyes as I take another bite.

As I eat, I make a mental list of things that I need to do tomorrow. First, I’ll have to get up early and make a broth or some kind of soup for the stray I brought home. With the way he looks, I don’t think solid foods would be very good for his stomach right now. The second thing is probably washing our clothes and going through Father’s things to see what is viable and could possibly be altered to fit my new guest. I pop the last bite of the potato into my mouth and shimmy out of the chair. Thirdly, I should make a second attempt at fixing our roof. The clay and straw mixture worked perfectly. I just have to bring it home. I puff my cheeks up with air and let it out slowly, reaching up to scratch my pointed ears. I’ll probably have to go into town tomorrow, too. I’ll need to find some more scraps of leather for a second pair of shoes.

I pull back my threadbare blanket and crawl into bed, taking care not to jostle Mother too much. I curl up onto my left side, pulling the blanket up to my ears. I keep the curtain slightly open so I can keep an eye on the boy just in case he wakes back up. I mutter off my to-do list for tomorrow over and over again until my swollen eyelids can’t help but lower. I feel the world fade away as sleep enters my body.

Nobody but you, the voice in my mind whispers.