ying behind a dumpster

the news, was pale and waxy. An empty syringe lay near his hand. This was the

mine. He made a soft, distressed sound. He didn't un

he line between life and death. To give life, you have to give a piece of your own. My grandmother w

, a life that could be mended. I thought I coul

y, waiting. I took out a small, sharp blade made of alligator bone.

ood drip on

the old words, the ones that taste like mud and cypress roots. I felt a pull, a cold drain deep ins

stuttered,

ace. His eyes flick

his hair and a drop of my blood inside. His life was

s voice a hoarse wh

" I said. "

d neither did I, that I