He thinks he’s hallucinating when, from somewhere, his head suddenly rests on a pillow and his skin is cooled by fresh air—his dry, cracked lips soothed by the touch of cool water.

It seems only seconds pass before he’s regaining his reason in a hospital, cheerful nurses tutting and tsking at how close he’d been to the brink. Physically, his health has been restored to him, but in his mind he’s still desperate for water, dreaming of food...

Once he’s released, and walking outside with his packet and a box of fragrant cookies, he sees her—-she’d been a few beds down from him in their little triage area, and receiving her own bundle before leaving.

Now she sat outside, visibly trying to put herself together. She had a look about her, one he recognized. The way her shoulders sagged, the set of her jaw...

“How goes the day, soldier?” He calls out, walking towards her with his box of cookies under his arm, which was wrapped at the elbow with a pressure dressing, a large gauze pad taped to the back of his free hand as he extended it towards her.

“Cyrano de Bergerac.”