Emma beamed at me like I'd just performed a miracle.
"See? You're looking better already," she lied cheerfully. "What's your name? I'm Emma. Emma Patterson. My papa runs the bank, and my mama makes the best apple pie in three counties. That's what Sheriff Hawkins says, anyway, but he might just be saying that because he's sweet on her."
She chattered on, completely oblivious to the fact that I was slowly dying right in front of her.
Or that the hunger was getting worse, not better.
That every word she spoke, every breath she took, every beat of her little heart was driving me closer to the edge of madness.
I lasted two more days.
Two more days of Emma finding excuses to check on me, bringing me food I couldn't eat and water that didn't help and stories about her life that made me remember what it felt like to care about something other than the burning need in my throat.
Two more days of fighting against instincts that grew stronger every hour, every minute, every second.
