The Caravan of The Sun Children consisted of many large slow-moving vehicles, a single drifting entity, like a giant snake trailing through the desert. Phoebe and her people were nomads, an incredible feat considering the hostility of the nearby lands. The convoy had stopped not far from where Thomas and July were resting, and now Phoebe drove them towards the line of vehicles, curled upon a vast plane where the inhabitants made their camps.
July awoke to the stern but unfamiliar voice of a man. He lay in a soft bed, in less pain than before.
“There isn’t much we can do for it at this stage,” said the man, who spoke to Thomas.
Tom noticed July was awake and moved to his side. “About time you woke up,” Tom’s voice was tense. “The doctor was just giving us the good news.”
“There is no good news,” the doctor asserted. “I’m going to be blunt. Your leg is broken in two places and the infection is spreading—”
“No,” said July, knowing where this was going. “Absolutely not. Find another way.”
The doctor went on. “There is no other way. It’s your leg or your life, and, as a medical man, I am obliged to keep you alive. This is happening whether you like it or not.”
Something snapped in Thomas, he was more on edge than July had first realised, knocking a silver tray onto the floor and grabbing the doctor by the collar. “I’m not about to let you saw off my best friend’s leg.”
Phoebe stepped into the room. “Thomas,” she shouted. “You got him here, don’t make it worse.”
Tom hesitated. His nostrils flared and he glared at her. He released the doctor and stormed out of the room.
The doctor took charge, calling two more men into the room to hold July down, but he resisted. “No,” he said, slapping one of their hands away. Phoebe stood over him and took hold of his shoulders. Sadness welled in her eyes, coupled with the severe inevitability of the situation. Her expression was enough to persuade July not to fight. He knew Phoebe couldn’t stand seeing others in pain, and yet she was here.
Someone handed him a strip of leather. “Bite this.”
July laid back and placed the strip in his mouth, it had a dry musty taste. Beads of sweat rolled from his brow as he stared at the roof of the tent. Anxiety and regret flooded through him, and trembling, he glanced down long enough to catch a gleam of silver before Phoebe forced his head back against the pillow. “Don’t look,” she said. “Look at me.” She held her face close to his. Her eyes were green.
Pain lashed from his leg and tore into his abdomen. It was agony that he hardly had the experience to describe, as though his leg was on fire, at first immense pressure, and then the anguish of flesh parting. Moisture dripped down his skin and soaked the sheets. His entire body tensed and shook. His screams ruptured the silence as pain consumed him. It was endless, to the point he was gasping for breath. Beneath all the pain he sensed the limb finally being separated, and with it his anxiety was swept away by a wave of grief. They had amputated above the knee, he didn’t look but he knew. Tears swelled in his eyes. Phoebe placed her hand on his and tried to smile, her dark skin was almost white. “Almost done,” she said. “Hang in there.”
They eventually released him after the doctor had folded the skin over the wound, stitched it shut, and wrapped it in bandages. It was as though a storm had passed, a terrible weight lifted from July’s chest. Phoebe let him sit up and the tears returned. He had no choice but to accept that his leg was gone.
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