Afternoon. The sun past its peak. Light still gray. Still filtered. Still weak.
Salvage crews working. Sounds of the Dregs continuing around them. Metal scraping stone. Voices calling. Bodies moving. The settlement living its life. People surviving. People dying. The world turning whether Del participates or watches or sleeps through it.
Footsteps approaching. Multiple people. Different rhythms. Fast. Purposeful.
Del opens his eye.
The woman. First customer. The one whose daughter got better yesterday.
Walking fast. Almost running but not quite. Controlled panic. Her face different from yesterday. Not joy. Not relief. Not gratitude.
Fear. Anger. Desperation. All three fighting for space.
She stops. Doesn't come close. Stands at the boundary. That invisible line everyone keeps. Her hands empty. No container. No rations. Just: hands clenching and unclenching. Like she wants to hit something. Like she wants to grab something. Like she doesn't know what to do with her hands anymore.
"The water," she says. Voice shaking. Controlled but barely. Like she's holding something back with pure force. "Yesterday's water. It worked. My daughter—she was better. All day yesterday. All night. Eating. Drinking. Playing. She LAUGHED. I hadn't heard her laugh in months. I'd forgotten what it sounded like. I'd—"
Her voice breaks. Catches. Continues harder.
"But today. This morning. She's sick again. Worse than before. The fever's back. Higher. The gut-sick. Throwing up everything. Blood. So much blood. Worse than—worse than it's ever been."
Stops. Breathing hard. Trying to control it. Trying to stay calm. Failing.
Del's stomach drops.
"Where'd you get new water?" he asks. "After yesterday's ran out."
"The well. Same place. Southern sectors. Same as always. Where else would I—where else is there?"
"And you've been giving her that?"
"Yes. Since this morning. After the clean water ran out. I didn't have anything else. I had to give her something. She was thirsty. She was crying. I couldn't—"
Understanding crossing her face. Horror replacing the confusion.
Del doesn't say anything. Doesn't need to. She understands now.
"The clean water helped," the woman says. Voice getting quiet. Getting small. "Just temporarily. The well is still poison. She's drinking poison again."
*My water made it worse. Her body grew complacent.*
"Yes."
The woman stands there. Processing. Her hands still clenching. Unclenching. The rhythm of it matching her breathing. Fast. Panicked.
"But the cleaning. Your ritual. The blood. I thought—I thought it made it permanent. I thought once water was clean it stayed clean. I thought—"
Stops. Can't continue.
Del doesn't fill the silence.
The woman's hands go to her face. Cover her eyes. Press hard. Like she's trying to push something back in. Keep something from coming out.
"Can you clean more?" she asks. Voice muffled behind her hands. Small. Desperate. "For tomorrow? Please? I can get more rations. I can work extra. I can—I'll do anything. Please."
Del's thumb on the ninth mark. Pressing hard enough it hurts through the fabric.
"No," he says.
The word flat. Final.
The woman's hands drop from her face. Eyes wide. Not understanding. Not accepting.
"But my daughter—"
"Will die if she keeps drinking poison."
The words brutal. True. Unavoidable.
The woman staring at him. Mouth opening. Closing. Opening again. No words coming out. Just: breathing. Fast. Shallow. Like she's drowning standing up.
"The cleaning helped for a day," Del continues. Voice still flat. Still factual. "It's not permanent. Can't be. The wells are poison. The sources are poison. The ritual helps temporarily. Then it's poison again."
"Then what do I—what can I—"
"I don't know."
The woman stands there. Processing. Her whole body starting to shake. Small tremors becoming larger. Becoming full shaking. Her hands. Her arms. Her shoulders. Everything shaking.
Then: "You lied."
Voice getting louder. Getting harder.
"You said you could help. You said the cleaning worked. You took EVERYTHING I had. Four rations. EVERYTHING. And you gave me ONE DAY."
Her voice rising. Carrying. People starting to notice. Starting to gather. Starting to listen.
"One day with my daughter healthy. One day hearing her laugh. One day thinking maybe she'd survive. ONE DAY. And now she's dying again and I have NOTHING. Nothing left to buy food. Nothing left to buy water. NOTHING."
More people coming. Forming crowd. Bodies drifting closer. Listening. Watching.
The woman's voice getting louder still. Almost screaming now. "HE'S A LIAR. THE CLEANING DOESN'T WORK. IT'S TEMPORARY. ONE DAY. My daughter got better for ONE DAY and now she's DYING and I paid him EVERYTHING I HAD."
The crowd murmuring. Bodies shifting. Some nodding. Some angry. Some just: watching. Waiting to see what happens next.
Del sits there. Doesn't defend. Doesn't argue. Doesn't explain.
She's right. He took her rations. All of them. Gave her one day of her daughter being healthy. One day of hope. Now her daughter is dying and she has nothing left to try. Nothing left to trade. Nothing left to do but watch.
The woman staring at him. Waiting for him to say something. To defend himself. To explain. To apologize. To offer something.
Getting nothing.
She makes a sound. Half-sob. Half-scream. Broken. Wrong.
Turns. Runs. Actually runs. Through the crowd. Bodies parting. Making space.
Gone.
The crowd doesn't disperse. Just: stands there. Watching Del. Murmuring louder now.
"—only works one day—"
"—daughter better then worse—"
"—took all her rations—"
"—my brother drank today—"
"—should I warn him—"
"—liar—"
"—con—"
Del sits there. Waiting.
More footsteps. Three people.
The older man. The woman. The scarred younger man. The ones from yesterday. Eastern. Western. Northern.
They stop at the crowd's edge.
The older man speaks first. Voice careful. Measured. "We drank the water. This afternoon. All three of us."
Del watches. Waiting.
"Mine worked," the older man says. "I feel better. Stomach doesn't hurt anymore. No more gut-sick. First time in months I've felt this good."
The woman next to him nods. "Mine too. Better. Not perfect. Still weak. But better than I was."
She pauses. "Thank you."
The words quiet. Sincere. Like she means them. Like she's grateful even knowing it might be temporary. Even knowing it might not last.
The scarred younger man is silent. Just: stares at Del. Face hard. Eyes cold.
Then: "Mine didn't work."
Voice flat. Dead.
"Drank it this afternoon. Two hours ago. Got worse. Threw up within the hour. Blood. More than before. Everything hurts worse. The water tasted wrong. Like it was still poison. Like you didn't clean anything."
The crowd murmuring louder. Bodies pressing closer. The sound of it building. Rising.
The scarred man steps forward. Into the circle. Closer to Del. "You charged me two rations. For water that made me WORSE. For poison you said was clean but wasn't."
Del doesn't respond.
"I want my rations back," the scarred man says. "Now."
"Can't give them back. Already used them."
"Then you OWE me."
Del's hand comes out of his pocket. Empty. The rock still inside. "I don't owe you anything. You paid for cleaning. I cleaned it. Your water was too poison for it to help."
The scarred man's jaw tightens. Hands clenching. "You're saying it's MY fault?"
Del doesn't answer.
The scarred man could attack. Could try to hurt Del. Take back what he thinks he's owed.
But the older man puts hand on his shoulder. Pulling him back. "Leave it. Not worth it. Look at him. Half-dead already."
The scarred man shakes him off. But doesn't attack. Just: stands there. Staring. Eyes promising something.
"This isn't over," he says.
Walks away. The other two following. The older man glancing back once. Nodding. Still grateful despite everything.
The crowd staying. Growing. More people arriving. Word spreading. Bodies pressing closer. The sound building.
More customers return throughout the afternoon. One by one. Six more. Nine total.
Three report better. Water worked. Feeling improved. Grateful. Quiet gratitude. Wary gratitude. Like they're afraid saying it too loud will undo it. Like they're afraid it won't last. Like they know it probably won't last but for now—for now they feel better and that's something.
Four report same. No change. Water didn't help. Wasted rations. Some angry. Some resigned. Some just: disappointed. Expected this. Another failed hope among many. Another thing that didn't work. Another day closer to dying.
Two report worse. Got sicker. Vomiting. Blood. One can barely stand. Friend supporting them. They don't speak. Just: look at Del with eyes that say things words can't. Eyes that promise something. Eyes that remember.
The woman's daughter: better yesterday. Worse today. Dying again. Temporary hope that made it crueler.
The pattern visible now. Clear. Undeniable.
Strong purification helps some people. Weak purification does nothing or makes it worse. Even strong purification is temporary if they return to poison sources. If they go back to the same wells. The same water. The same slow death.
The crowd understands this now. The murmuring getting louder. Angrier. More confused. More desperate.
"—three got better—"
"—four wasted rations—"
"—two got WORSE—"
"—only works if poison isn't too strong—"
"—only works temporarily—"
"—daughter dying again—"
"—what's the point—"
"—still took our rations—"
"—still helped some people—"
"—should we try again—"
"—should we warn others—"
Del sits there. Listening. Watching. Saying nothing.
Some people leave grateful. The three whose water worked. Who feel better. Who got what they needed even if they don't understand why it worked for them and not others. Even if they don't know how long it will last. Even if they suspect it won't last at all.
Some leave angry. The ones who wasted rations. Who got worse. Who feel cheated even though Del never promised more than he gave. Even though he never said permanent. Never said guaranteed. Just: cleaned. Just: tried.
Some leave uncertain. Standing at the edges. Watching. Wondering if they should try. If their water might work. If they might be the lucky ones. If desperation is worth the risk.
The crowd disperses slowly. Reluctantly. Bodies drifting away. Talking. Processing. Building stories. Spreading word. By tomorrow morning everyone will know. Everyone will have heard. Everyone will have an opinion.
But not everyone will have the same opinion.
Del alone again finally.
The Dregs around him continuing. Salvage crew returning. Fewer people than left. Someone crying. Someone else calling names. Looking for bodies. The usual rhythm. The usual losses. The world grinding on.
Three lives improved.
Two lives damaged.
Four neutrals.
One temporary that's worse than neutral because hope followed by loss cuts deeper than no hope at all.
The ninth mark represents all of it.
He pulls the rock out. Looks at it in the fading light. The ninth mark still sharp. Fresh. Unmarked by carrying.
One day of laughing. One day of eating. One day of being a child instead of a dying thing.
Then back to dying. Worse than before maybe. Body doesn't know how to fight anymore. Gave up fighting when the clean water came. Relaxed. Let down its guard. Now the poison hits harder because the body forgot how to resist.
His water made it worse. Her body grew complacent.
Del doesn't know if this is true.
Can't know.
But the possibility is heavy. Real.
He puts the rock back. The weight of it familiar. Necessary.
Tomorrow he sells the map to Kael.