The answer is simple enough and perfectly vague -- as was the naïve grin that's plastered across the thin angles of her expression. Was it a comfort that at least this kid is old enough to be mindful of uncontrollable elements, or a curse for prolonging her painful existence? Perhaps the wisdom would keep this cherub alive for another couple of nights or maybe a week. Eventually, (as this mature mind is so keenly beginning to fantasize) the sparse reserves of the flesh would thin, before disappearing entirely. Those immature muscles would get consumed for fuel as a last resort; their remaining balance uselessly spent on keeping her heart beating.

The next phase happens slowly, agonizingly painful; soon the cold would start to sink in. Her body would feel heavy, exhausted, and demand sleep. Those eyes will close their velvet shutters; perhaps she'd hold one halfway open in a finally surge of energy to behold the planet her wasted soul is abandoning. I could almost see it. Wait.

My toes freeze misstep, the images that are playing across my mind come to life and for a split second it wasn't a make believe reality, an occurrence that might occur a week or two from now when this sprout was miles from my mind and beyond the reach of aid. It was right now. Right in front of me. I watch as a soundless shadow as those dual colored limbs curl her shallow, horrifically frail frame into a pitiful ball. Snow startes to fall from a coal colored sky, the flakes gather upon the soft down of her body. Gently providing a blanket the babe so desperately required; soon it covers her tiny length and the coiled plumage -- caressing the final remnants of strength from every tendon and fiber. Until there is no ember. No spark. Only a dead eyed foal, laying beneath an old magnolia.

A black shutter falls across my vision. I've blinked and image is gone, vanished. My body has remained unmoving, as has the youth -- she was peering up at me bemused. "What?" These lips form a word that stings the air as a gasp, they pull apart after a moment and utter the most pointless, soft phrase I've ever spoke, "It's a...thing..." Yes, I remember her question; vaguely. My throat constricts, swallowing a sudden wave of nausea and bile, "a trinket." She was dead... This fleshcoat trembles, a cold sweat sprouts from beneath the thickening hide. Unseen fleas that crawl beneath fur. "Your..." Don't. "T-there's a storm coming," I could run. Run far from this cursed land and its bat lizards, witch's, gods, orphans. A soft whisper drifts on the wind, carried by the calm hoot of a night owl. "Aye," it calls with somber note. "Let's..." I can't finish; not when I'm looking into those pale eyes.

On cue to make life more interesting, a light sprinkle of freezing rain starts to fall.

Hold on kid...let me puzzle this crazy.

I feel sick.