Rachelle Mills

“You brought a lot of stuff, Kimmie.” “Hazie, I see you brought yourself, per usual.” “I brought the drinks.” “Per usual.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “I mean, if drinks are to be brought, you’d be the one to bring them.”

“Do you believe in mercy?” Bessa asks the mothers who still have their pups latched to their breasts. The Far North females nod their heads as if they know what is coming next.   My throat tightens between grief and anger, but I nod with them. A group of us understands what it means to be the Far North. We understand mercy.  “If we refuse?” A female from another pack with building rage asks. 

“Starvation is suffering,” she said. “Spare the suffering.”  His red-rimmed eyes find mine. It seems his floodwaters are still raging, deep enough that he is finding it difficult to swim. I will not let him drown.