Cillian dabbed Brady's sweat-soaked face with a damp cloth. The boy looked up at him through half-lidded eyes.

"I'm thirsty," he whispered.

"I'll get you a glass of water."

Cillian rose from the edge of the bed. In the adjoining room, he picked up the pitcher. His hand trembled as he poured the water. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. Get yourself together, man.

Brady couldn't see how terrified he was. If Cillian gave up hope, what would his little brother have left to hold on to? He shoved his fear into the farthest corner of his mind and returned to the bedroom. Sliding an arm around Brady's shoulders, he helped him sit up. His black hair clung to his forehead, and an unhealthy flush colored his face.

He handed Brady the glass and watched him take a few small sips before slumping weakly against his arm.

Only two weeks ago, Brady's eyes had sparkled as he'd eagerly shown him one impossible sketch of a flying machine after another.

Then the fever had come.

And every day since, it had gotten worse.

Judging by how the illness had progressed in the other children, Brady had no more than three days left.

Three days...

Ice-cold fingers slipped between Cillian's ribs and closed around his heart in a crushing grip.

He couldn't lose Brady.

There were only two people left in the world he truly cared about, and if one of them died, part of him would die too. He was afraid of what that loss would turn him into, afraid that the cold closing in around him now would settle in his soul forever—and drive away the last person he still had left.

He gently brushed his fingers through Brady's damp hair as he lowered him back onto the pillows.

Technically, he should report Brady's illness.

But what would be the point?

The Sleeping Sickness had plagued their people for decades, and no one had ever managed to make a difference. He trusted his own abilities—and his mother's research—far more than he trusted the official investigation team. If they came here, they'd only perform the same tests whose outcomes they already knew.

Brady would be just another routine case.

Cillian would rather give him the peace that still filled this house.

"Try to get some sleep. I'll make some soup."

Brady didn't even have the strength to nod. His eyelids drifted shut almost immediately.

Cillian gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze before walking into what had once been his parents' study.

His mother had originally used the room while searching for a cure for the Sleeping Sickness. After her death, his father had taken it over. Her notes had been tucked away inside drawers, while the desk itself had become buried beneath sketches of flying machines.

One of those sketches was the reason his father had never come home.

Cillian dropped into the chair and pulled the notebook toward him—the one he'd been reading before Brady had woken screaming from another nightmare.

It didn't take long to find the line where he'd left off.

So far, most of what he'd found were recipes meant to reduce fever. The strange thing was that every patient responded differently. It was all trial and error.

Just like his mother, Cillian clung to the hope that there had to be one remedy a patient would respond to. One that would lower the fever enough to keep them from slipping into that deep, endless sleep.

After reading through the recipe, Cillian headed to the market to buy the ingredients.

A water tuber.

Nightworms.

Bitter apples.

He hated leaving Brady alone, but there was no one he trusted to stay with him.

Part of him felt guilty for not even confiding in his best—and only—friend, but he had no idea how far Jake's telepathic gift actually reached. Maybe Jake could pull far more from Shane's thoughts than anyone realized.

He simply didn't want Jake's research team showing up.

They'd been studying the disease for years without producing results, and they'd dismissed every finding his mother had contributed before she died. He didn't know what to make of that, but one thing was certain:

They weren't going to help Brady.

They might as well stay away.

If it really came to the worst—if Brady died—Shane would collect the body and take him away.

No one else had cared about Brady since their father disappeared.

They didn't need to start now.

After buying the ingredients, Cillian returned home. He followed the recipe carefully, prepared the soup, and an hour later managed to feed it to his little brother.

Please let it work this time.

It has to.

But once again, the fever refused to break.

Defeated, Cillian slid down into a corner of the room and sank to the floor, burying his face in his hands. His throat burned, but he refused to cry.

That wouldn't help anyone.

There has to be something.

Anything.

He gave himself a few minutes to pull himself together before returning to Brady's bedside.

He kept vigil as one nightmare bled into the next, his little brother tossing, muttering, and burning with fever.

Cillian continued cooling his face with damp cloths and kept fresh air flowing through the room, but nothing helped.

It only got worse.

Eventually, Brady became too weak to eat.

The black of his hair stood out more starkly against his pale skin with every passing day, and his cheekbones began to protrude.

He's dying.

Cillian had lost his own appetite as well.

He'd never believed in a higher power, but now, against all reason, he found himself hoping that starving himself might somehow persuade some god—or whatever existed—to intervene.

He didn't care what it would cost.

He would do anything to save his little brother.

Brady's hand felt limp inside his own.

"Brady?" Cillian's voice sounded just as fragile as the boy lying before him.

No response.

Immediately, he leaned over him. "Brady?" His voice jumped an octave.

Painfully slowly, Brady opened his eyes.

Relief flooded through Cillian so suddenly it almost made him dizzy.

His little brother's lips moved, but no sound came out.

"I'm going to get you some more soup."

He had to.

Brady needed to keep eating.

Four days had passed now.

He'd already survived longer than any of the others.

That gave Cillian the smallest sliver of hope, though he knew perfectly well it didn't mean Brady was getting better.

In the tiny kitchen, he reheated the soup he'd made the day before. As it warmed, he glanced out the window.

Night had fallen.

As much as it was probably for the best that Shane hadn't come by, it still hurt.

Sometimes Cillian couldn't shake the feeling that their friendship only mattered in one direction—that Shane meant far more to him than he did to Shane.

Which wasn't exactly surprising.

Shane still had his parents.

His brother.

Cillian had no one left except Shane...

and Brady.

And Brady wouldn't be with him much longer.

He wasn't someone who talked about his feelings, but right now he would have given anything to have his best friend beside him.

Just so he could sleep for a little while, knowing someone was watching over his brother.

Suddenly, a heart-rending scream tore through the house, so piercing it felt as though it ripped straight through his eardrums.

Cillian bolted toward the bedroom.

The bed was empty.

His eyes darted frantically around the room.

For the briefest instant, he caught sight of something disappearing through the open window.

He stared.

Then shook his head.

No.

That couldn't be.

He had to be imagining it.

Sleep deprivation was making him see things.

But no matter how hard he tried to convince himself his eyes had deceived him...

there was no better explanation for the fact that his gravely ill little brother was nowhere to be found.