The fire had burned down to a steady glow.
Lucas and Bereshith sat close, sharing the last of their meal beneath a sky scattered with stars. The road east lay quiet for now, as if resting alongside them. Yareach drank softly from the skin of milk Lucas had brought, her small hands clumsy but determined.
Lucas broke the silence first.
"You didn't hesitate," he said quietly, eyes on the fire. "Not when it mattered."
Bereshith shrugged slightly.
"I was afraid," he admitted. "But I didn't want her to die."
Lucas nodded.
"That's usually how it starts."
Before Bereshith could ask what he meant, a soft sound drifted from the darkness beyond the fire.
"Hello…?"
The voice was thin. Afraid. Unsure whether it should exist at all.
Lucas and Bereshith turned at the same time.
The girl was trying sitting up.
Her movements were slow, careful, as if the world might punish her for trying. She clutched the borrowed cloak around herself, eyes wide, darting between the fire, the men, and the sleeping sheep nearby.
"Umm…" she said hesitantly. "Where am I…? And who are you?"
Lucas stared at her, stunned.
She didn't remember?
He glanced at Bereshith, who seemed equally surprised—but calmer.
Bereshith shifted Yareach gently and spoke first.
"I am Bereshith," he said softly. "And Mister here—"
He paused and looked up at Lucas.
"…What is your name, Mister?"
Lucas blinked, then answered quickly.
"It's Lucas."
Bereshith nodded and turned back to the girl.
"And this is Mister Lucas," he said. "We just saved you."
The girl frowned slightly.
"…Saved me?"
Lucas leaned forward, still trying to understand.
"Yeah," he said plainly. "We saved you. You were bleeding badly from your right leg earlier today. You were coughing blood."
His voice softened, a quiet joy threading through it.
"You almost didn't make it."
The girl looked down at herself—at her leg, wrapped but whole, at her hands, no longer shaking.
Her breath hitched.
Bereshith spoke gently.
"Are you hungry?" he asked. "Come… eat with us. There's plenty."
As he spoke, he lifted the waterskin and fed Yareach again, his movements practiced now.
Lucas gestured with his hand, inviting.
"Come here," he said. "Sit closer. Don't be afraid—we're not going to hurt you."
The girl hesitated.
Then, slowly, she crawled toward them—awkwardly, shyly, like a child learning how to trust the ground beneath her. She stopped just within the edge of the firelight.
Lucas reached out and handed her a piece of meat skewered on a sturdy stick.
It was well cooked. Warm. Real.
She took it with trembling fingers.
And then—
She devoured it.
Not politely. Not carefully. She ate like someone who had forgotten when her last meal had been, chewing fast, almost desperately.
Lucas and Bereshith stared.
Then both laughed.
Not mockingly.
With relief.
The girl froze, suddenly aware of herself. Her face flushed red, and she swallowed too quickly—
She choked.
Panicking, she looked around for something to drink.
Lucas immediately handed her the waterskin.
"Careful," he said quickly. "It's not water—it's milk."
She didn't care.
She drank deeply, coughing once before managing to swallow the food down. When she finished, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, embarrassed.
Lucas smiled gently.
"What's your name, little one?" he asked. "And why were you out there alone… dying?"
The girl looked down.
For a long moment, she said nothing.
Then she drew in a shaky breath.
"My name is Levanah," she said softly. "And… I am a runaway slave."
Lucas stiffened.
Bereshith went very still.
Levanah continued, voice trembling but determined.
"I ran because I wanted to live," she whispered. "They said I was broken. That I wasn't worth feeding anymore."
Her hands clenched in the cloak.
"Mister…" she looked between them, eyes shining with fear and hope tangled together. "Please help me."
She bowed her head slightly, as if afraid to ask too much.
"Let me follow," she pleaded. "I want to live. Please."
The fire crackled.
The sheep bleated softly.
Bereshith looked at Lucas.
Lucas looked at the child, then at the girl, then toward the road east—long, dangerous, unforgiving.
And yet—
He already knew the answer.
Because once you choose to save one life,
you don't stop choosing.