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Quiet footsteps making their way across the asphalt snag Avery’s attention. It’s weird because he’s only known them a short time, but Avery recognizes Beryl’s scent. Even weirderis that he isn’t afraid. Maybe they’re coming to bodily drag him away to throw into Celeste’s waiting maw. Maybe he’s so pathetic they’re rescinding the offer.

Either way, he can’t bring himself to care.

What Avery doesn’t expect is Beryl picking their way down the incline into the drainage ditch, their boots squelching in the mud. They crouch beside him, frowning, then hover their fingers over the injury on Avery’s back. Just the proximity makes him clench, and they haven’t even touched him.

“You should be healing faster,” Beryl mutters. “Why are you still this fucked up?”

“Dunno,” Avery slurs.

Beryl clicks their tongue. “I don’t want to hurt you, but you gotta get up. You need to get away from here.” When Avery doesn’t respond, Beryl continues. “Some of the supervisors were talking about coming back out to teach you a lesson.”

Avery closes his eyes. Beryl knuckles him in the shoulder.

“I’m not joking, Avery. They’ll fuck you up.” A pause follows before Beryl adds, their reluctance palpable, “Atwood told them that you’re trans, okay? I don’t…”

Sudden tension makes Avery’s wounds ache. He leans into the pain, trying to get the ursine to wake up and give him strength again. The beast stays dormant, but Avery ends up not needing it because Beryl gently catches him under the shoulder. Prying his heavy limbs and disgusting clothes out of the muck hurts beyond his capacity for words, but Beryl is there to slowly ease him upright, saying nothing about his miserable whimpers. When he’s no longer horizontal, they settle him in a reclining position on the side of the ditch.

“Do you have anyone you can call?” Beryl pulls out their phone and looks at him expectantly.

Avery presses his lips together, then admits, “My phone is dead.”

“I have a power supply, but you still can’t stay here. Can you walk?”

Dying in the sun sounds preferable. Avery nods anyway, even though doubt fills him. “I can try, at least.”

“All we can do,” Beryl says quietly, then proceeds with the arduous process of helping Avery out of the ditch without injuring him more.

When they reach the road, Avery examines his physical state. The lacerations have mostly stopped bleeding, but his skin aches, especially where the morning sun beat down on his exposed back. Each step burns, but with Beryl’s hand a surprisingly gentle support, Avery limps along until the farm’s welcome sign is no longer in sight.

The trek feels like it takes hours. Avery’s energy stores are empty, reducing the ursine to chewing on the only thing Avery has left: His will to live, rapidly dwindling.

They finally stop when they reach a railing on the side of the road, protecting drivers from the consequences of taking the curve too fast. Unable to think of anything but the bruised and burned soles of his feet, Avery plants his ass on the thin metal edge and buries his face in his hands.

Beryl takes his phone out of their pocket. They’ve had it on their portable charger, but when Avery peeks through his fingers, he sees the low battery icon on the shattered screen. It won’t turn on.

“It hasn’t been charging all that great since…” Avery trails off.

Beryl winces, but doesn’t apologize, which Avery appreciates because he doesn’t wanna hear it.

Instead, they ask, “Do you have any numbers memorized? I can’t stay here too much longer.” Hesitantly, they add, “Could you ask that shifter who was with you? The other alpha.”

“I don’t…” It feels like a violation, having the undistilled joy of his relationship with Sascha out in the open. All the assumptions that will be made about them. But Avery gives in, mumbles, “I can try to remember,” and returns to the darkness behind his palms. He tries to envision Sascha’s number, all the times he’s stared at the contact on his screen, zooming in on Sascha’s photos to memorize every pixel of his lovely face. Finally, Avery extends his hand for the phone. “Let me see.”

Beryl surrenders their phone and watches intently as Avery tries to piece together Sascha’s phone number. He isn’t great with remembering numbers, but after spending months trying to adjust to his enhanced sensory profile, Avery’s begun to make sense of it. Along with sight and smell, his memory sharpened. He just has to relax.

Taking a deep breath, Avery calls the number he’s input. It goes straight to voicemail, and the auto-responder is for Kathy-someone. He shudders, but makes another attempt, ignoring the crease in Beryl’s brow and the way they keep looking nervously down the road and into the tree line behind him.

This time, the phone rings. It rings and rings, each one stealing a bit of Avery’s hope. Avery’s heart sinks when the auto-responder picks up, before it nearly bursts out of his chest.

You have reached the voicemail box ofSascha Madison. The automated message continues to drone, but just the flicker of Sascha’s voice has tears of relief gathering in Avery’s eyes. He flicks his gaze to Beryl, who has perked up at the sign of success.

Please leave a message after the tone.

“Um, hi, Sascha,” Avery begins, trying to talk evenly past the knot in his throat. “I kinda got in some trouble, and I’m injured. I need you to pick me up. I’m on, uh…” Avery looks around for a road sign. Beryl murmurs the name of the intersection, and Avery repeats it. “My phone is dead and I’m borrowing someone else’s, so don’t try calling this number back. I’m just gonna… stay here. Okay? Thanks.”

Avery terminates the call, leaving his fate in the unknown realm of ‘Does Sascha check his voicemail?’

Officially too exhausted to keep standing, Avery limps to the other side of the guard rail and sits down, his ass halfway on dusty gravel and feet sunk into cool, shadowed grass. He wraps his arms around his knees, huddling for safety in his own embrace.