“Dad, can we go hunting?” Ket asked, his voice filled with the eagerness of his dragon side needing a chance to stretch his wings. “Not today, son. I’m in the middle of brewing potions,” Midta reminded him gently, glancing up from the collection of potion ingredients that cluttered the workbench. “When’s lunch?” Ket persisted. “At noon, like always. It’s just about ten bells now,” Midta replied, noting the position of the sun filtering through the windows of the potion room at his house. “We could go hunting for our lunch,” Ket suggested, his eyes alight with the possibility of adventure. “I can’t, Ket. These potions won’t brew themselves, and some of them need constant attention,” Midta explained, stirring a concoction that bubbled softly, emanating a sweet, earthy scent. “But I’m hungry.” Ket pretested. “So have a snack to tide you over. It’s two more hours until lunch, and that’s if I don’t run into any complications with this potion,” Midta said. “Can I help with the potions then?” Ket asked, hopeful that he could somehow speed up the process. “Sorry, Ket. Potion-making is delicate work,” Midta said, regret tinging his voice as he turned down his son’s offer. Ket sighed, the disappointment evident in his slouched posture. “Can we go hunting?” “We'll see how the day goes, Ket.” Midta doubted they’d have time. He sighed deeply, feeling the weight of his son’s erratic condition pressing heavily upon him. He had racked his brain time and again, trying to understand the cause, trying to find a solution for his son’s fluctuating mental clarity. On his good days, Ket was a marvel to behold; his intellect shone brightly, his memory was impeccable, and his capacity for recalling the minutest of details was truly astounding. But then, without warning, the fog would roll in, leaving Ket bewildered, his cognitive faculties betraying him to the point where even his fingers confused him, and his lifelong knowledge vanished like mist. “When’s Mom coming home?” Ket asked innocently, his voice tinged with expectation. Midta felt the sting of those words as if they were a physical blow. The cruel hand of time had long since claimed his beloved Til, leaving an unfillable void in their lives. It was heart-wrenching moments like these—when his son slipped into the grasp of forgetfulness—that reaffirmed the cruel finality of her absence. “Ket, how are you feeling?” Midta inquired gently, trying to assess his son’s state of mind. “I don’t remember. I’m hungry, but I can’t find the kitchen. Mom’s not here,” Ket replied, his confusion evident in the furrow of his brow. “Mom died, remember? I’m sorry,” Midta said softly, the words feeling like jagged shards of glass in his mouth. “She can’t come back?” “No.” Each utterance felt like eroding his soul, the harsh truth bitter on his tongue. “We can’t heal her?” “No.” “Can we try?” Each question was a testament to Ket’s enduring hope and Midta’s own desolation. His heart fractured a little more with each query. He longed for Til with every fiber of his being, ached for her guidance and companionship, her laughter and love, all now relegated to the echoes of memory. “I wish we could. She’s gone. If you can give me a few minutes, I’ll help you make a snack,” Midta said finally, his voice heavy with the sorrow of their shared loss. He rose, setting aside his own grief, ready to tend to his son’s needs. It was a painful thread woven into the fabric of their daily lives, this oscillation between remembrance and oblivion, yet Midta faced it with the resilience born of love, endlessly patient, eternally devoted. “Okay, then we can go hunting,” Ket declared, his eyes sparkling with the excitement of adventure. Midta shook his head, his features set in a gentle look of firm determination. “No hunting today. We’ll have our meal here at home. Why don’t you hunt down the kitchen?” Ket let out a soft chuckle at his father’s choice of words. “Okay,” he said, accepting the challenge. As Midta returned to his delicate task, methodically continuing the intricate process of crafting his potion, the clinks and clatters of glass and the murmur of brewing liquids created a soothing rhythm in the background. It wasn’t long until Ket’s voice echoed through the halls, “Dad, I found it!” Midta looked up from his work, a hint of pride in his deep voice as he replied, “Good. Now see if you find some food.” With the confidence of his kind, Ket boasted, “I’m a dragon, I can smell it,” hinting at his keen sense of smell, one that no pantry or cupboard could ever hope to contend with. Midta chuckled softly, knowing full well the nature of his son. “Don’t eat it raw,” he called out with a loving reprimand, imagining the possible mischiefs unfolding in the kitchen. “I’ll cook it in a minute.” Having reached a crucial pause in his potion-making, he took the opportunity to clean his hands and prepare to cater to his son’s hunger. Upon entering the kitchen, Midta was greeted by the sight of Ket hovering over the ingredients, clearly tempted, but obediently holding back. His eyes then fell upon the message board where Ket had scrawled a new note: ‘Don’t eat raw food.’ Midta’s lips curled into a smile, reflecting on how the message board, though sometimes itself forgotten, served as a supplement to Ket’s fleeting memory. Midta prepared a light snack for both of them and was tidying up the kitchen when the sound of a knock echoed through the house. Standing at the door was a young boy, his eyes wide with a sense of urgency. “They need you to come. Bring your kit,” the boy urged. “Where to?” Midta inquired, already mentally running through the inventory of his medical supplies. “It’s one of the refugee houses. I’ll show you the way,” the boy responded, fidgeting from foot to foot. “Think it’s Jahree?” Ket speculated from where he stood, a dishcloth in hand. He seemed taken with the latest refugee boy. “Maybe,” Midta said, grabbing his well-stocked medical kit. “Should I come and help?” Ket asked, putting down the dishcloth and looking ready to drop everything at a moment’s notice. “No, stay here and finish cleaning up. I’ll call if I need any assistance,” Midta instructed, knowing the snack stuff would be forgotten if he didn’t say something. Ket nodded in understanding. “I’ll wait.” “Good, thank you,” Midta replied, giving Ket an appreciative look before heading out the door, following the young boy to provide aid wherever it might be needed. Midta followed the boy and gave him a silver for his trouble. “Thanks.” The boy hurried off. Midta stepped into the house, his footsteps echoing through the dimly lit hallway. As he approached a bedroom, he could hear muffled voices coming from inside. With a cautious hand, he pushed open the door and was met with the sight of Jahree on his knees, fear etched on his face as guards closed in on him. With a roar of anger, Midta leaped forward, causing the young boy to faint in terror. The guards, taken aback by the sudden outburst, looked ready to faint themselves. “What is going on here?” Midta demanded, his eyes burning with fury. “You were specifically instructed to be careful around refugee children.” “Sorry sir,” one guard stammered. “The boy came to me for help, saying something about his parents. I followed and they wouldn’t wake. They’re dead. I went for someone to translate.” “That’s me,” another guard spoke up, nervously shuffling from foot to foot. “The others were bringing you the bodies.” Midta’s growl reverberated through the room. “You should have waited for my orders before moving the bodies. What if this was a crime scene? And why did you call for me when you were already taking care of it?” “I sent for you before I knew they were dead,” the first guard explained sheepishly. Midta sighed wearily. He would have to discuss the importance of following proper procedure with General Az, but for now, his priority was to attend to a family in crisis. With a heavy heart, he approached the boy’s prone form. He had a bad case of sleepless fever. Tamerians had no immunity to it so it hit hard. Midta knew it wasn’t lethal enough to take the boy’s parents. Something else was at play here. As Midta turned towards the guards, he issued a stern command. “Everyone, stay here,” he warned, leaving no room for argument. His tone carried the authority of his office and the urgency of the situation. He then turned his attention to Shima and Willin and a sense of sorrow deepened within him as he confirmed what he’d suspected: they had been dead for several hours. An aching realization settled in that even if he had been alerted sooner, he likely could not have saved them. The question that vexed him now was why no call for help had been made earlier. What had prevented it? Looking around at the onlookers, he disclosed his findings. “The boy has sleepless fever. His parents, however, succumbed to Trebo.” Trebo was another infectious illness, but unlike sleepless fever, once survived, it conferred lifelong immunity. His gaze fixed on one particular man in the room who he remembered treating for the disease. “You. You’ve had Trebo, so you’re immune. Inform your supervisor of the situation. Then bring Ket to my clinic. He’s not doing well so make sure you accompany him so he doesn’t wander off. Tell him Jahree’s there. He should be cooperative,” Midta instructed before turning to address the others, “The rest of you will accompany me for observation.” He was taking no chances with a potential outbreak of Trebo. Despite the man’s evident dissatisfaction with the turn of events, he nodded in assent, acknowledging the gravity of the situation and the potential for disruption should Ket become unstable. Having given his instructions, Midta then proceeded to transport the others to his clinic. *** Jahree scanned the room, his eyes meeting those of the other children in the foster home. They watched him, curiosity mixed with empathy evident in their expressions. He clung tightly to his stuffed bunny, finding solace and comfort in its softness. Although his physical health had improved since his time at the clinic, he was still recovering. But he hadn’t said a word since being taken to the clinic. They felt he would do better at the foster home. Mama Sai didn’t know the specifics of what he had experienced before coming to Torthoc. Midta had simply hinted at the fact that Jahree was fortunate to have survived whatever he had been through. But the clinic had reminded him of Tameria, and so had his parents’ deaths. He’d seen death before. Jahree understood that they were gone forever. Mama Sai gently laid Jahree down on the soft bed, her warm and comforting touch offering a sense of security. Wrapping him in a soft, cozy blanket, she hoped to provide him with a feeling of safety amidst the uncertainty he had faced. Sitting beside him, she cradled him in her arms and rocked back and forth, her bellyfire radiating a gentle warmth to hasten his descent into slumber. Sleep was what he needed most, both to recuperate from his recent illness and to find respite from the emotional wounds he carried. She knew that Jahree was resilient, a fighter who had already endured so much in his short life. She believed in his ability to recover not just physically, but also emotionally. With unwavering support and care from the foster home, Jahree would find the strength to heal and rebuild his life, step by step. The End