Harry pressed the pack of frozen meat harder against his bruised eye, wincing slightly as the cold sank into the swelling. His other eye stayed fixed on his mother across the tent.
Neither of them spoke for a while.
The lantern hanging above them swayed faintly, casting uneven shadows along the fabric walls. Outside, there were low voices, footsteps, the usual noise of people trying to act like things were normal.
Inside the tent, it felt suffocating.
Sheryl tried to smile at him. It didn't last more than a second before it fell apart.
She shifted closer, her hand lifting slowly like she wasn't sure if she should.
"Don't touch me," Harry said.
The words came out sharp.
Her hand stopped midair, then slowly pulled back. She rested it in her lap and curled her fingers into her palm, like she needed something to hold onto.
"…Honey," she started, her voice quieter now, careful. "I know things are… bad right now. But we'll get through it. We always do."
