Lucas didn’t like the way Celia was coughing as she leaned over Harold. Her shoulders shook with each breath, and she moved a trembling hand as though to touch his face, but drew it back quickly. Tears welled in her eyes, glinting in the orange firelight. Harold’s breathing was harsh and ragged, each inhale a struggle that scraped his throat. He tried to cough, but only a hoarse rasp came out. His chest heaved and fell, sinking inward with effort.
Lucas didn’t dare voice what he knew. He saw it written across Harold’s face. The color draining from his skin, the tremor in his fingers, the faint gray tint that spoke of something slipping away. Celia had already lost too much.
“We need to get him to the hospital,” Celia whispered. Her voice broke, and tears cut pale tracks through the soot
