The forest is a prison. A silent, watching thing that looms in every direction, its skeletal trees clawing at the sky, their gnarled branches tangled with moss and shadow. The air is thick—heavy with the scent of damp earth, pine needles, and something more sour, more metallic. Distantly, a wolf howls, its voice stretching long and lonely through the dark.

The cabin stands in the clearing like a dying animal, its rotting wood barely holding against the wind. But the attic—that cramped, dust-choked space above the others—is the only place you can think to bring Lottie. The only place where she can have even a sliver of privacy.

She barely makes it up the ladder. You have to hold her, nearly carrying her as she leans all her weight against you, her breath hot against your neck. Every movement sends a tremor through her body, her grip tightening on your sleeve like she’s afraid you’ll let go.

When you finally lower her onto the mattress you dragged up here, she slumps against the wall, her head lolling back, eyes fluttering shut. The candlelight flickers over her face, illuminating the damage.

It’s bad.

Her cheek is swollen, an ugly purple-black bruise spreading along her jaw. Her lip is split, the wound still raw, dried blood crusting at the corner of her mouth. One of her eyes is nearly swollen shut, the delicate skin around it dark and puffy. But it’s worse beneath her clothes. You saw it when you carried her—how she winced at every shift, how her breath hitched when your arm brushed against her ribs.

Now, as you kneel beside her, you lift her shirt just enough to confirm what you already feared.

Her ribs are a mess of bruises, deep and ugly, spreading in uneven patterns along her torso. Some are dark as ink, others a sickly yellow at the edges. But it’s the welt on her side—the deep, angry swelling where Shauna’s boot connected—that makes your stomach churn.

You press your fingers gently against her ribs, feeling the uneven rise and fall of her breath. The moment you do, she flinches.

“Lottie,” you whisper, your voice tight, “I need to check—”

“I’m okay,” she interrupts, soft but firm. She tries to smile, but it barely reaches her eyes. “You don’t have to worry so much.”

How can she say that? Her body is trembling, her skin burning hot despite the cold.

“I think you have a fever,” you murmur, brushing back her sweat-damp hair. “Lottie, I need you to tell me if anything feels worse. If it’s deeper than just bruising.”

She swallows, looking unsure for the first time. "I—" She shifts, trying to sit up straighter, but the moment she does, a sharp, pained gasp slips from her lips. Her breath stutters. "I—I need to pee."

You hesitate. Of course, she does. You should have thought of that. There’s no way she can make it down the ladder, and even sitting up is a struggle. You glance at the bucket in the corner—the only option.

"Okay," you say quickly, trying not to let your concern show. "I’ll help you."

Getting her up is slow, painful. She’s weak, unsteady, and she clings to you more than she needs to, her arms looping around your shoulders, her fingers curling into your shirt like she’s afraid to let go. She presses against you, her breath warm against your neck, her body trembling in your arms.

She’s too fevered to be shy about it. If anything, she leans into you like she needs you to keep her standing.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

"You don’t have to thank me," you murmur, but she squeezes your sleeve in response, her touch lingering.

Then—

You hear it before you see it. The change in sound, the way her breath catches.

The blood in the bucket makes your stomach drop.

“Lottie,” your voice is small, unsteady. “You’re peeing blood.”

She blinks down at it, then back at you. And then, as if realizing how scared you must be, she forces another smile. "It’s—it’s okay," she breathes, but there’s a tremble in her voice now. “It’s probably just from being kicked. It'll pass.”