Through blurry eyes, I saw an old woman with a bent back crouched on the floor.

Water dripped into my palms before a warm towel was pressed against my forehead.

Her warm, bony hands gripped my back as she forced me upright.

Syphyllis growled at her.

She smacked him.

“No!” I screamed.

She reached for a bowl on the floor.

Tilting my head back, she pressed the rim to my lips and poured in tasteless, watery porridge.

My dog whimpered beside me.

He licked my arm, and I tried to lift my hand to pet him, but I had no strength left.

The porridge kept flowing into my mouth, thick and clinging, almost lodged in my throat.

She did not stop. It spilled over the edge of the bowl.

When it was empty, she released my head without warning.

It nearly struck the floor.

Syphyllis barked just in time.

A bony hand caught me and lowered my head onto the cold ground.

The woman’s steps as she left were slow.

Each one rattled inside my skull.

Through blurred vision, a broken sound slipped from my mouth.

“Mo-m?”

The hunchbacked figure paused.

A gentle but indifferent voice answered,

“Don’t call me that.”

She left.

I blinked, unsure if I was seeing clearly.

My dog’s belly was swollen, porridge dripping from his snout.

I laughed as a bubble formed on his nose when he breathed out.

Clutching my stomach, I rolled weakly on the floor.

Syphyllis rushed to my face and blew his foul breath at me, smelling faintly of dirt and cooked rice.

“Nasty dog!” I yelled.

He barked and pawed at me, and I laughed again.

Then my vision spun.

My head struck the ground.

The floor was unbearably cold.

I still wanted to fight it, to laugh, but nothing came out.