[ redacted ]‘s head is in my lap as I write this.

His muzzle is cut. Front teeth broken. His eyes are swollen and he rasps and wheezes when he breathes.

But he’s breathing. And his head is in my lap. And he’s smiling in his sleep.

My world is in turmoil. I don’t care about the rebellion, or politics or anything. I wish I could just escape with him, that I could take away the horror of these last few weeks.

But I can’t—this is really it. It’s the end of everything I’ve ever known.

We’re leaving this city in an hour or so. It’s a dangerous trip, but it’s far more dangerous here.

I can’t sleep. I feel like the door could bust open at any minute. I jump at every scrape or rustle outside this shed, I’m so on edge.

But my friends are resting. I haven’t told them much, but they trust me enough to follow.

[ redacted ] knows, of course, but he hasn’t said anything. He’s a professional.

I feel far weaker.

The city sleeps, but I fear its waking.