The Sweet Taste Of His Blood

After the earthquake, Dad went to sleep.

I was curled into his chest, tucked beneath the shadow of a massive concrete slab. His body was slowly losing its heat, turning into a cooling hearth as I stayed huddled there, sucking on his finger and swallowing the sweet red tea he gave me.

A voice crackled from the black screen of his phone. It was Mom.

"Save the people with minor injuries and Parker first," she said, her voice sharp and distant. "As for David—he’s tough as nails. He can wait a little longer. It won't kill him."

It really was Mom. Dad told me she’d come for us soon.