Some people celebrating. Bodies jumping. Shouting. Excited.
"—IT WORKED—"
"—HE DID IT—"
"—CLEAN WATER—"
Others arguing. Angry. Shouting back.
"—ONLY TWO—"
"—THE THIRD IS QUESTIONABLE—"
"—NOT PROOF—"
"—HE'S HIDING SOMETHING—"
Bodies shoving. Pushing. The guards moving in. Clubs raised. Breaking up fights before they start.
Someone laughing. That high broken sound. Wrong.
Someone else crying. Loud. Sobbing. Relief or grief or both.
The smell intensifying. Vomit. Sweat. Bodies pressed together. Moving. Chaos.
Del sees fragments through his failing vision:
A man—face wet, mouth open, hands shaking so badly he's hitting himself, relief so strong it looks like pain.
A woman—arms crossed tight, jaw set, eyes hard, not convinced, waiting for the trap.
An old person—face blank, staring at nothing, too exhausted to feel anything, just existing.
Tam—at the edge, face pale, eyes wide, watching Del, terrified and relieved and guilty all at once.
And in the crowd, a glimpse—
Lira.
Bodies moving. Creating gaps. Just for a second.
She's standing apart. Still isolated. The space around her still empty. People avoiding her.
Her face pale. Bloodless. But watching.
Eyes on the containers. On Del. On the chaos.
Her fingers empty. The metal piece still on the ground somewhere. Lost.
Her mouth slightly open. Breathing visible. Fast. Shallow.
Their eyes meet. Just a moment. Brief.
She doesn't smile. Doesn't nod.
Just: looks at him.
Her expression—not relief. Not celebration.
Recognition.
They tried. It failed. They survived anyway.
But the cost visible in her face. The isolation. The exposure. Garrett knowing.
Then bodies shift. The gap closes. She's gone. Swallowed by the crowd.
Del's vision going darker. The black spots merging. Taking over.
Vence's voice cutting through the chaos. Loud. Authoritative.
"QUIET."
The crowd settling. Slowly. Reluctantly. Bodies still moving but the noise dropping.
"The ritual WORKED," Vence says. "Two containers confirmed pure. One heavily treated but acceptable."
Pause. Letting it settle.
"Service starts TODAY."
The crowd erupts again. Louder. But Vence continues over them.
"Two rations per purification. Starting NOW. First customer comes TONIGHT."
He looks down at Del. Del can barely see him. Just: blur. Shadow.
"You did it," Vence says. Quiet. Just to Del. "Barely. But you did it."
He walks away. The guards following. Taking the containers with them.
The crowd dispersing. Slowly. Bodies moving. Talking. Arguing. Processing.
The noise fading. Distance growing.
Del alone in the center. Can't move. Can't see. Just: exists.
Breathing shallow. The rib grinding. Blood still dripping from his hand.
Footsteps nearby. Light. Careful.
Tam.
"Can you move?" Tam's voice. Quiet. Scared.
Del tries. Can't. His body won't respond. Just: sits there.
"I'll get help."
"No." Del's voice barely there. Whisper. "Just... wait."
Tam sits next to him. Waiting.
The junction empties. People leaving. Going back to their lives. Their desperation. Their hope or doubt.
The one-armed man still there. Del can hear him. That asymmetric walk. Moving around. Examining.
The containers. The positions. Looking for evidence. Trying to figure out what happened.
His breathing audible. Fast. Frustrated. Angry.
He knows something was wrong. Knows Del did something. Saw the hands moving. The containers close together. About to switch.
Just can't prove it.
Finally: footsteps leaving. Scrape-step. Scrape-step. Fading into distance.
Gone.
Del and Tam alone.
Silence.
Just: wind. Cold. Morning sounds. Distant voices.
"You did it," Tam says finally. Voice quiet. Empty.
Del doesn't respond.
"The third container," Tam continues. "That was diluted. You couldn't swap it. So you just... buried the contamination under blood."
Still no response.
"Someone's going to drink from that eventually," Tam says. "In your service. When you use the remaining water. They'll get sick."
Del's hand finds the rock in his pocket. Even now. Even barely conscious. The habit automatic.
Eight marks. His thumb traces them. Stops on the eighth.
"Maybe," Del says.
"Not maybe." Tam's voice harder. "Definitely. And when they do—when they GET sick—"
He stops. Can't finish.
Silence.
Then: "I helped you do this. Marked the containers. Made some look worse. I'm part of this now."
Del looks at him. Barely. His vision too blurred to see clearly. Just: shape. Presence.
"Yes."
Tam's breathing changes. Faster. Shaking.
"We both are," Tam says. Voice barely there.
Del doesn't respond.
Tam helps him up. Slowly. Gets Del's arm over his shoulder.
They walk back to Del's sleeping area. Takes forever. Each step agony. Del's vision going black multiple times. Coming back. Going black again.
Tam sets him down. Del collapses immediately. Can't stay upright.
Lies there. Breathing shallow. Each breath wet. Wrong.
His hand still on the rock. Still feeling the eighth mark.
Should add a ninth. For today. For the performance. For starting the service.
Doesn't.
Not yet.
Tomorrow. After he knows.
After.
---
Hours pass. Light shifting. Orange becoming softer. Temperature dropping.
Del lying still. Hasn't moved. Can't.
His hand stopped bleeding finally. The cut closed with dried blood. Crusted. Dark.
The rib still grinding. But duller now. Constant pain becoming background. Normal.
Footsteps.
Someone approaching. Light. Hesitant.
Del opens his right eye. The left still swollen shut. Infected now probably. Hot. Throbbing.
A woman. Middle-aged. Thin. Face worn like stone in water. Years of desperation visible in every line.
She's holding a container. Sealed. Old. Cracked.
Stops a few feet away. Doesn't come closer. Just: stands there.
Looking at Del. At his broken body. His bloody hand. His swollen face.
Her expression complicated. Hope mixed with doubt. Desperation mixed with fear.
She wants to believe. Needs to believe.
But doesn't. Not fully.
Long silence. Neither speaking.
Finally: "I heard you're doing purifications."
Voice quiet. Uncertain. Like she's not sure saying it out loud makes it real.
Del doesn't respond. Just: looks at her.
Waiting.
"I'll pay two rations," she continues. Her hands shaking slightly. The container trembling. "Please. My daughter is sick. The water we have—it's making her worse. She's—"
Her voice catches. Breaks slightly.
"She's only six."
She holds out the container. Her hands shaking worse now. The container almost slipping.
She catches it. Grips tighter. Knuckles white.
Del looks at the container. At her face. At the desperation barely contained.
He could refuse. Tell her the service isn't ready. That he's too injured. That she should wait.
But Vence said service starts today. First customer tonight.
And she's here. Paying. Desperate.
Trusting.
Del reaches out. His hand shaking worse than hers. The cut reopening slightly. Fresh blood welling.
Takes the container.
The woman's face—
Relief floods it. Immediate. Overwhelming.
But underneath: doubt. Fear. Uncertainty.
Her mouth opens. Closes. Words trying to form.
"Will it—" She stops. Tries again. "Will it really work? The purification?"
Del looks at her. At the hope and fear fighting in her expression.
Could lie. Say yes. Certain. Convincing.
Could tell truth. Say maybe. Probably. No guarantees.
Says nothing. Just: looks at her.
She stands there. Waiting for answer. For reassurance. For something.
Getting nothing.
Her face changes. The hope dimming slightly. The doubt growing.
But the desperation stronger. Overpowering everything else.
"When should I come back?" she asks.
"Tomorrow."
"Morning?"
"Evening."
She nods. Quick. Nervous.
Doesn't leave. Just: stands there. Looking at the container in Del's hands. At his face. Back to container.
Like she's trying to decide. Believe or run. Hope or flee.
Her hand goes to her mouth. Fingers pressing against her lips. Holding something in. Fear maybe. Or words.
"My daughter," she says finally. Voice breaking. "She's all I have. If this doesn't work—if she gets WORSE—"
She stops. Can't finish.
Del meets her eyes. Says nothing.
What could he say?
That it might work. Might not. That dilution helps but doesn't cure. That her daughter might get better or might die and he doesn't know which.
That he's giving her hope wrapped in poison and calling it mercy.
Says nothing.
The woman stares at him. Long moment.
Then: "Please." Voice barely there. Whisper. "Please make it work."
She turns. Walks away. Fast. Like staying longer might break her. Might make her take the container back. Make her run.
Disappears into the growing shadows.
Del sits there. Holding her contaminated water.
Opens it. The seal breaks. Old. Brittle.
Sniffs.
The smell hits immediately. Bacterial. Heavy. Strong. Worse than container eleven. Much worse.
This isn't mildly contaminated. This is death water. Weeks old. Maybe months. Stagnant. Growing things.
Her daughter has been drinking this. For how long? Days? Weeks?
Six years old. Drinking this.
Del looks at the water. Dark. Cloudy. Things floating in it. Particles. Movement.
Knows what he'll do. Dilute it with his clean supply. Add his blood. Make it taste better. Return it "purified."
The dilution will help. Make it safer. Less concentrated.
But this water—this much contamination—dilution might not be enough.
Her daughter might still get sick. Might still die.
Probably will die.
Del sets the container aside.
His hand goes to the rock. Pulls it out this time. First time today.
Looks at it in the fading light.
Eight marks. Eight grooves. Worn smooth from carrying.
His thumb traces them. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.
Stops on the eighth.
The child. Weeks ago. Following him. Trying to learn. Dying because Del didn't warn them.
Thinks about the woman's daughter. Six years old. Sick. About to drink water he diluted. Water that might kill her anyway.
Thinks about everyone who will come. Everyone desperate. Everyone paying. Everyone trusting.
Thinks about how many will get sick. How many will die.
His thumb stays on the eighth mark.
Should add a ninth now. For today. For starting this.
He finds his knife. Still bloody. Never cleaned.
Presses it against the rock. At the edge. Where the ninth mark would go.
Starts to carve. The blade scraping stone. Small sound. Rough.
He carves slowly. Deliberately. The groove forming. Shallow at first. Then deeper.
The ninth mark.
For today. For the performance. For starting the service.
For the woman's daughter who will probably die.
For everyone who will come after.
The groove deepens. His hand steady despite everything. Despite the shaking. Despite the pain.
Finishes. The ninth mark complete.
He runs his thumb over it. Fresh. Sharp-edged. Not worn yet.
Will be. Eventually. Like the others.
Puts the rock back in his pocket.
Looks at the woman's container. The death water inside.
Tomorrow he'll dilute it. Add blood. Return it. Tell her it's pure.
She'll take it to her daughter. Six years old. Sick.
The daughter will drink it.
Tomorrow.
He lies down. Carefully. His ribs screaming. The cut on his hand throbbing.
Closes his eye.
Doesn't sleep.
The service has started.