The man twists around in the grass to see Altair, his eyes rapidly growing wet. Tears dripping down the creases of his face, damaged by polio, made bloated and red by years of alcohol abuse. There’s no beard to cover the damage anymore, just naked devastation.

“I should be dying. I shouldn’t be here.”

He muffles a sob behind his palm. When he removes his hand the words just jumble out at once.

“Have you seen anyone else? His name is Kim, he wears a- he got shot. Worse than me. He needs help.”

He struggles himself up into a sitting position. The world around him blurs in pain, in dizziness. He knots his fingers into the grass and earth, trying to stabilize himself.