“No,” he said. “He won’t.”
Arthur felt the old god’s bargain twist inside him. He had spoken truth. He knew he had. And yet—
Arthur looked at her. He saw the photograph clutched in her hand: a boy, maybe eight, bald from chemo, but grinning. He felt the weight of truth settle into his bones. The answer was a cold stone.
In the bed lay the boy. He was breathing. Weakly, but breathing. Machines beeped. An oxygen mask fogged and cleared, fogged and cleared.