Eleventh hour

Two jugs, half full, swing on either side of Ollie’s neck as he trudges through the warrens where the patients with hallucinations and sickness are housed. His paws were heavy, his tail dragging. His ribs showed through his haggard and ruffled dull white fur.

He leans against the doorway of Wilders room, close to the exit of the warrens. A light breeze carries fresh scents through the archway. He knocks. “Wilder? I have a medicine. It’ll help.” He calls into it. He had been to several patients already administering the concoction. Some called it a cure, but he didn’t have the energy to argue.

"Speech!"