You seem to be the only person who remembers the plan: tie planks of driftwood and other, unidentifiable materials together to make sort-of rafts, tie bodies and loose parts to the rafts, and send them downstream with the current, which should hopefully clean up the part of the river you usually use for water. The Saint is just tossing bodies out of the river into a gruesome pile on the ground, Salithra has wandered off upstream as though following a call none of the rest of you can hear, and Devin is shovelling uselessly into the water to dig up grimy topsoil, also forming a pile. One more rainfall and the piles of debris will go rocketing back into the water, but you somehow manage, or decide, to bite your tongue, focusing instead on the task at hand.

Devin brought containers for water, including a barrel The Saint used last time the two of them went for water. With five of you to collect, you should be able to at least get enough to tide the Bastion over for a few days, during which time you can return and finish the actual plan. Satisfied, you get started on your own pile. Before long, the river looks cleaner, at the significant expense of loose body parts and waterlogged scraps of loose hair and torn skin lining the sides of the river. You can't tell the corpses apart; their faces are disfigured, some bloodstained as though they spat up while dying. You wonder bleakly if some of them choked on their own blood as they died, then push the thought away, doubling down on your work.

Your group dwindles in size as the sun wanes. Colby and The Saint both take off and head back for the Bastion, the Saint looking impassive as ever, Colby looking like he's got something on his mind. That leaves you, Devin, and Salithra, the latter of whom has wandered back just in time to help collect water. You side-eye her as she approaches – her expression is strange, a mix of many emotions, but you think better than to question her in front of someone else. Besides, time is of the essence.

Devin doles out empty bottles to collect the temporary clean water in. You scoop water into both and lid them, then pause for a moment, seeing your reflection in the water. You look ragged, worn out, frayed at the edges, like a man who's suffered for ten lengths of his short lifetime, or an insubstantial ghost, ready to waste away into the chilly air. The sound of smashed glass distracts you – Devin tripped and fell onto his own rucksack.

“Easy,” you caution, putting your bottles aside to help him up. He stumbles again, but catches himself, looking pale. You do a quick once-over, but his face seems mercilessly clean of the human remains and muck that coat the rest of his body. Thank, well, modern Din Talin medicine, for the hazmat suits you've got on. Salithra inspects him for glass shards, then checks the rucksack for the damages. Devin starts – you feel the pulse under his skin leap through his tattered clothes and the gaunt lack of flesh on his back. Hungry, worn through, just like the rest of you. About your age, too, it occurs to you; you can't be that far apart.

Salithra pauses while counting bottles. Devin is immobile in your arm, as though by going limp, you will forget he's there.

You open your mouth to ask questions, but no words come out.

Salithra turns.

In her hands are two bottles. One glistens, the clear droplets of leftover drinking water inside it catching the light. The other looks murky, its contents unclear. You let Devin go, and approach, slowly, to look at it.

The droplets of remaining water are the same colour the river was before you started cleaning. The colour of contamination.

Slowly, ever so slowly, with blood pounding so loudly in your ears you can't hear yourself think, you raise your head to look at Devin.

{[]}