Chapter 3: Medicine and Memories

When Marcus woke up, I was brewing medicine on the stove.

The little ranch house creaked in the wind, old screen door banging against the frame. Somewhere, a radio played country music just out of tune. The smell of cedar and wet grass mixed with the sharp, earthy scent of herbs bubbling on the stove—something almost sweet, like licorice, but not quite.

He had no eyes and fell from the bed, groping helplessly.

When he heard me come in, he panicked and bumped into the corner of the table, gasping from the pain.

My boots thudded on the wood floor as I rushed over, cursing myself for not moving the damn furniture.

"Who put you up to this? Was it Noah? Derek?"

I scratched my head, not knowing how to explain the system.

My eyes landed on the cow tied outside the door, and I pushed all the blame onto her.

"Neither."

"I ran into you when I took the cow down to the river to wash off."

The old brown cow outside, unhappy at being blamed, snorted twice and turned her back to me. Her tail swished, flicking at a fly with attitude. Guess she didn’t appreciate being dragged into my lie.

There had been a commotion just now, and Marcus’s wounds had reopened and started bleeding again.

I could only reapply medicine and bandage him once more.

His voice trembled with weakness: "Who are you?"

"Sam."

I couldn’t read, so I’d asked the system many times before deciding on this name for myself.

The medicine outside was ready, but it smelled bitter and astringent.

Marcus clenched his teeth and refused to drink, afraid I’d drugged it.

I tried to reassure him: "Don’t be afraid, you once saved me."

He was puzzled: "When?"

"Right outside St. Luke’s, the one with the peeling white paint and the neon cross flickering in the window. Two peanut butter sandwiches."

Back then, I wasn’t working the ranch yet. I was just a half-dead drifter, dressed in rags, curled up in a crumbling church basement. I could feel the cold concrete through my jacket, the stink of old mold and candle wax in the air. It had been February, the kind of cold that bites through your bones. When I was about to starve to death, a man shining with hope pushed open the door and entered, holding two steaming hot sandwiches. He handed me those sandwiches right outside St. Luke’s, the one with the peeling white paint and the neon cross flickering in the window.

He pulled me back from the edge.

He frowned and thought for a while, then relaxed his lips and allowed me to feed him the bitter medicine.

He winced, face screwing up like a kid forced to eat spinach, but he swallowed every drop.

I washed the pot clean.

Marcus was pretending; he probably didn’t remember.

My heart squeezed. Maybe I was just another stray he’d helped, nothing special. Still, I hoped maybe my voice rang a bell.