"Of course I love you, you're my brother," says Dirk to Dave as they are sitting in the forest, leaning against a tree. His face is bruised and smeared with blood, mostly his own, he thinks.
"But I--I didn't work hard enough, when Ambrose was sick, I could have worked harder--I was never working hard enough," says Dave, still breathing hard. He has a bruise on his right cheek, but the major damage is to his ribs, which are badly bruised, and they feel damp. The skin must be broken, then. "If I worked harder, he might have--gotten better."
"I--Dave," says Dirk, feeling terrible. "Do you--do you really believe that? That--that it's your fault?"
Dave doesn't say anything. The two of them are crying now, bitter tears, as they remember their elder brother. A man who had once been strong, protective, caring, and then suddenly a terrible sickness had torn that all away.
"I don't think anything could have saved him, Dave," says Dirk quietly, trying to stop crying.
Dave slumps forward and sobs bitterly, and Dirk does the same.
The sounds echo through the empty wood as the sky turns dark and the night creatures begin their day.
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