FOUR | UNSPOKEN

Careful not to disturb the body, we swung into action. My Dad pulled out an on-the-go first aid kit from his thigh pouch, and my Paps checked for a pulse while I hovered above her mouth, listening for any signs of breathing.

Her hair was wet, straggly, plastered to her sallow face. Her cheekbones stuck out, gaunt, and there were ugly, deep-set bruises filling her eye sockets. I didn’t have a second to feel anything for her: no pity, no sadness, no repulsion. I had a job to do, and, as we worked to revive her, I did feel a tiny swell of pride at our quick response, and at our flawless teamwork. I squashed it down as soon as it arose; there was no time to feel pride, not when there was a life on the line.

Her lips were blue. She started to shudder, my Dad slamming his hands onto her chest behind me. Her head bounced, rolling onto one side, and my eyes narrowed in on a large bite mark scraped across her exposed neck. It was dark