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At the base of an ancient oak, the highest branches of which were obscured by the evening, Adam awaited his judgement. He lay on his belly with his paws crossed, as he'd seen cats do sometimes. He appeared calm on the outside, as he intended, although dozens of questions tumbled through his mind. In particular how he could have been this stupid. The pack arrived long after sunset. They surrounded him. Adam clenched his jaws. They would not see him flinch.

Parasitic

Chapter 1: Milk

Milk is life. From the newborn puppy that lives because instinct leads it to its mother, to the orphan that starves surrounded by food, the same rule applies; Water means survival, but milk is life. Henn had seen it happen. Some calves managed to drag themselves to the udder on their trembling legs, some did not. There was no seclusion in the herd, no matter how tragic the circumstances; and life went on. Henn felt a vague sense of pride sometimes. Not everyone had made it this far. And then he kneeled and drank from the massive, benevolent creature that had given birth to him, and felt a mixture of joy and uneasiness. Henn didn't know why, but the whole affair could make him uncomfortable too, the enormous, pink, swollen nipples, the eyes of the herd in his back. As if it was a shameful act somehow. He knew better than to ever mention such thoughts to his mother. She'd be terrified; she knew just as well as anybody what happened to calves who wouldn't nurse. Henn's mother had told him he was almost ready to start grazing. The first time he tried it, his jaws didn't have the strength to break the tough fibers, and he'd vomited afterwards. But he'd kept it down the second time, and the bitter taste wasn't nearly as off-putting. Henn lived in a relatively small herd of in the hundreds. They were always on the move, chasing the sun one half of the year and fleeing the drought the other.

And eventually, of course, someone turned up dead.

On a thin bed of grass lay a hairy popped balloon that had once been a person. She was emaciated in a completely unnatural way. The dead cow had become thinner than hunger and thirst can make you. The skeleton was covered by a sheet of skin thinner than silk. The belly hadn't bloated at all, and never would, because there was nothing left to swell. It was deeply disturbing, and impossible to keep your eyes off off. No parent would ever want their child to see something like that, but there was no seclusion in the herd. The calves stood with the adults, not knowing where to look. The concerned whispers went over their heads, literally, but they felt the tension just as well. Henn didn't know the dead cow, so thankfully, he didn't know which one of his playmates had just lost their mother. He looked up at his own mother. The face he knew so well had an expression he'd never seen before. As if she could feel him looking, Henn's mother turned her head. She mustered a reassuring smile.

"Run along now."

He did, Henn didn't run literally, but it was close. He ran into Dorian on the way, whom he'd already seen in the crowd with his mother. Dorian was Henn's best friend by coincidence. They had been born almost simultaneously and in close proximity, and taken a completely instinctive and unquestionable tolerating to each other. The two mothers and sons were never far away from each other, as if it were a pact of sorts.

"Hey" one said, "Hi" the other replied. "What do you think happened?" Dorian asked as if Henn could possibly know that. "Don't know. Sick, probably." Henn replied. He could tell by Dorians silence that he was trying to come up with a joke. They always fell flat, but Henn found his commitment to humor extremely funny in itself, which was probably why he was Dorians only real friend. In his childish innocence, Dorian asked the question that the rest of the herd avoided like the plague. "But how did she get all flat like that?" They were both quiet for a while, and Henn wondered if he would one day look back on this moment and know exactly what he should have said.

The crowd broke up on its own. Death was nothing new, but this... It lingered in everyone's mind, even if they wouldn't admit it to each other. And that night, when the calves were asleep, a small gathering was held out in the open.

Henn's mother was there too, as could have been expected of her. Her name was Areëh, and she had an inherent tendency to meddle. Not that that anyone saw it as meddling. On the contrary, everyone considered it perfectly natural that Areëh would be the one to decide what, if anything, had to be done (and to do it, if she found it necessary). They came to her with their problems, and nobody ever wondered why. In another life, she could have been a leader. Here she was one of many, but she was always the one.

And so, when she stood up from her sleeping place that night, quietly, so that she wouldn't wake Henn, the other cattle started to flock to her immediately. First a fellow mother, and another. A vague acquaintance. An elder who had to be helped, with some more helpers tagging along. Two bulls with stern faces. Until a group of at least thirty had gathered in a loose circle, and began to blather chaotically, first at whispering volume, but quickly becoming louder.

"Some kind of disease." "Looks like no disease I've ever seen. Did you see her body?" "Of course I saw the body, that's why I'm here." "She was fine a few days ago!" "Was she? I hadn't seen her for a while." "Looked like no disease I ever seen." "You said that already." "Then what was it?" That question that nobody could answer hung in the air like a smell so foul it silenced everyone. And right then, somebody coughed. Nobody had heard Adam approach. No small feat for an aging grizzly bear who weighed over four hundred kilos. He sat on his rear like a human would and looked at the assembly. He had been with this herd for years, years already. And still, they didn't trust him. Still, the cows instinctively lined up behind the bulls, as if they could protect them from a bear. Only Areëh, he noticed, was completely unfazed by his presence, or at least pretended to be. She stood in front of the bulls and acknowledged him with a nod. After a few seconds, she added: "I'm glad you're here." Nobody was ever glad that Adam was there, he was well aware of that. But he appreciated the effort. Adam looked as non-threatening as a bear could. Slouched like he was about to fall asleep, with a deep, disheartened and utterly sincere grumpiness in his eyes. And of a certain age, of course. The wolves would have called him greymuzzle (which in their culture was not an insult, but a sign of respect), had he been one of them. But he wasn't, and he would never be a part of this herd either.

"I find it highly unlikely that the cow you lost died of natural causes," he said, getting straight to the point. As you already noted, the symptoms match that of no disease ever recorded in this herd." "Her name was Lucia," one of the bulls interrupted. "And what do you think it was, then?" "I'm not sure yet," Adam said patiently, "but I..." "Not sure yet?" Areëh looked calm on the outside, but Adam could see her concern. "What do you mean by that? Is it..." She didn't finish her question. Adam regretted his poor choice of words, but he couldn't take it back anymore. He might as well be honest now.

"I think we're dealing with a predator that we haven't encountered before. And it will have to eat again at some point, just like..." Adam's last words drowned in the murmur. "I don't believe that for a moment," said the bull who had interrupted him before. After a short pause, he raised his head dramatically and said: "Very well. I'll be the one to say it. How do we know this wasn't you?"

Adam looked at him menacingly for a few seconds, but the young bull didn't seem impressed. Adam chuckled. "How about we pretend that was a joke, so you can save a little face." "It wasn't." "Of course. Son, I was following this herd since before you were born and I never helped myself to one of yours, even when I was starving in the middle of winter. You've all seen the body. Something removed her insides, leaving an empty shell behind. How would a bear do that?" Adam's logic was undeniable, but not completely convincing. The fact that he found it necessary to defend himself made him more suspicious. Areëh decided to change the subject. "I've never heard of a predator that can do something like that, but perhaps you do, Adam. I know you've been around and I trust your... I trust you. What do you think we should do?"

Adam appreciated her faith and her calmness. He wanted to be honest with her, but he had to think of the rest of the herd too. "At night, we sleep in a group, with the calves in the middle and the bulls on the outsides. I will stay within sight distance at all times, but I'll keep my distance if that would make you more comfortable." An old bull raised up his head and said: "I don't believe you're the danger here, Adam. I think you should be able to sleep among us, for our own safety. We'd be stupid to exclude you now." Several voices protested fiercely, but the old bull looked nonchalant as if he couldn't hear them. Adam couldn't help but be moved, and relieved. "Do you think those measures will keep us safe?" That question came from a young heffer. It had no hidden meaning; she was scared for her life and needed comforting. Adam looked her in the eye and said: "Yes."

When the crowd dispersed to go back to bed, Adam grazed his shoulder softly past Areëh's flank. "Can I talk to you for a minute?" he asked. He looked around to see if he could find the old bull as well, but couldn't find him. "How well did you know the cow who died?" he asked. He saw a hint of grief in her eyes and feared for a moment that he'd been too crude. Then Areëh recovered herself and answered: "Not well at all. I'd spoken to her once, I believe." "I assume she was born in this herd?" "I don't know, but I assume that too." Adam was quiet for a moment. "I might have some idea as to what we're dealing with here. It's not a predator in the classical sense of the word, so please keep this between us." Areëh nodded, with a nasty foreboding feeling. "There are creatures called parasites that live within the body of another animal, feeding on what they eat, until they're either expelled from the body or kill the host. Large herbivores such as cows and horses sometimes suffer from intestinal parasites if they've eaten something that was infected. These are usually harmless. But smaller animals, like insects and rodents, can carry a parasite around with them, getting weaker as it grows, until... until..."

"Until it kills them." Areëh felt a shiver down her spine. A body inside a body. A foreign invader eating her up from inside. She didn't know how to imagine it, which made it only that much more terrifying. What had Lucia felt in her last days? Could she have felt it moving inside her? Eating her? As if Adam knew what she was thinking of, he said: "You can carry a parasite without feeling a thing." "I'm glad. That feeling must be a horrible." "Yes, but it also makes them hard to detect. As I said, I've never heard of a parasite that can take down an adult cow, let alone..." Areëh shrieked. "The body!" She said. "We've all touched her body! Maybe the parasite has jumped to a new host! And now you've told everyone to sleep close together, we're going to infect each other!"

"Calm down, Areëh. You would be completely right, if it had been a disease that killed Lucia. When I heard that there had been an unexplainable death, I was worried that the corpse might infect the other cows if they came too close. But a parasite can not travel by air. It has to be eaten by the host. And this is only a theory. If it was indeed something inside Lucia, she must have been carrying it around for a long time before it had grown to the size where she could not support it anymore. That's why I wanted to talk to you. I need to know about how Lucia was doing in the last few days of her life. Was she eating a lot without gaining weight? Was she tired, or feeling sick? Did she produce enough milk for her calf?" Areëh shrugged apologetically. "I don't know, Adam. I barely knew Lucia." "Do you know who was? Could you ask around? Anything she said or did in the last few days could make the difference." Areëh sighed. "I don't know, Adam..." Adam didn't say anything, only stared at her with eyes of stone. "It's already hard enough for the cows that knew her. We don't like to dwell on these things, Adam. It's just not the way we do things. We have to look after the calf..."

"Her calf must know something."

Areëh's jaw dropped. She looked up to see if he was serious, which he was. Areëh begged for mercy, for the calf and for herself. She whispered:

"She just lost her mother, Adam..."

Adam did not respond and for the first time in her life, Areëh felt uncomfortable in his presence. Adam saw her turmoil and gently nosed her head.

"I need you to do this for me," he said.

Chapter 2: Water

Coincidences happen. Sometimes they happen twice. But two suspicious deaths cause more concern than one, and rightly so. A second empty cow was found, and Adam got a message from the wolves. A small male which he'd never seen before simply announced himself with a cough, told him to come to a nearby clearing at dusk, and left, leaving Adam dumbfounded. He had no idea how they found him, or how much they knew, but he knew he could not refuse. He didn't show his face to the herd that day. He was alone.

The wolves came in force. First the strong males, who instantly circled him, then the elders, grey, slow, partially or completely blind, and last of all Youna, the alpha. It was the first time since his condemnation that Adam saw him. He was a little surprised to see how little he had changed. Youna was large, rust-colored and looking far smarter than Adam knew he actually was. When Adam last saw him, Youna had already considered his own word to be law with shocking naivety, and he hadn't managed to learn humility in the past few years. Or at least, that's what Adam could see in his already judging eyes.

"How's it going, Adam?" "Can't complain. I wish I could say the same for the herd, though." "We know what happened. But don't worry, we're not here to accuse you. We know you've watched over them for a long time, as we asked you to do, and You've done well so far. But you'll surely understand I had no choice but to come." "Of course." "I would like to hear your side of the story." Adam noticed Youna said I, singular, as if the rest of the tribe either didn't matter or wasn't there. Was he trying to play friendly so that Adam would accidentally incriminate himself for the death of two cows? He was on trial again, just like five years ago. Adam suddenly felt an intoxicating rage rise up from his stomach. Despite all the comforting and the sweet talk in the world, Youna was here to accuse him. Again. Using the pack that would never dare question him as witnesses. Again. And he honestly thought Adam couldn't see that. "I don't have a side, only a story. After we found the first body,... Did you see the body?" That was a question for the entire pack. A few of the males shivered and Youna said: "I heard about the state it was in, yes." "I highly recommend you go take a look yourself," Adam said. "But anyway, I tried to keep panic in the herd to a minimum. And when the second one died, I got your message, and here I am." "That's all?" Youna sounded suspicious. "That's all." Youna approached him one tiny step. Adam didn't flinch. He wasn't even the slightest bit nervous, to his own surprise. Something had changed in the past five years, either in him or in this pack. But the difference with five years ago was so clear.

"Why do I have the feeling you're not telling us everything?" Youna's flunkies laughed sheepishly, and Adam laughed too. "It's probably because you don't trust me." The laughing stopped abruptly. Adam looked Youna straight in the eye. "Isn't that right?" He asked. "Sure we..." Youna cleared his throat. "We do trust you Adam." Adam came a little closer. "Do you really?"

The pack was so quiet it was like they weren't even breathing. In one fell swoop, Adam had turned the tables on them. The accuser became the accused. Youna realized the loss of face he had just suffered. The anger in his eyes softened an old scar on Adam's ego.

She appeared over Youna's shoulder. Although "appear" wasn't really the right word, she was just there as if she'd always been there, waiting for this moment. For a split second, Adam imagined that she'd been there for an eternity, waiting for this moment.

A blind she-wolf formed the bridge between the pack and the spirits they believed in, that was all Adam knew. The pack guarded the secrets of their spiritual leadership carefully. But in reality, the wolves weren't quite sure who or what she was, either. Nobody could remember a time when she hadn't lived, alone, as was silently expected of her, even though they would most certainly feed and shelter her if she asked. She was white as snow with but a few brown and black patches here and there. Her eyes were white as well, and had shrunken in the sockets over time so that they could not be opened completely. Youna turned around and took his place among the others; in her presence, his word held no more sway. Ever so slowly, puffing and moaning, she stood up and approached the moonlit clearing. Nobody showed any intention to help. What they were looking at was no woman or wolf; it was a spiritual being beyond their reach or understanding.

"Do you remember me, Adam?" Her voice was a whisper, as soft and yet as omnipresent as the wind. "Yes, I do." "Then say it. Confirm it." Adam swallowed. His heartbeat echoed across the clearing like a drum. "You condemned me to protect the herd for the rest of my life five years ago." "Do you hate me for that?" "Not anymore." She nodded, as if she was pleased with his answer. She breathed in, opened her mouth... waited... The pack leaned forward in anticipation.

"The herd..." She spoke like a vintage locomotive picking up steam for the first time in a decade. "...is tied to us." She smiled triumphantly as if that covered everything. In the awkward silence Adam caught a glimpse of Youna's face, and almost had to laugh. "The herd is tied to the pack by the bonds of life. We can not exist without one another. Long before you, Adam, I knew that the herd would suffer unspeakable horrors. The herd will suffer by the power of love."

The wolves didn't exist anymore, their silhouettes had become part of the forest. The world outside her voice faded.

"We all have a part to play," she whispered. "Long I waited. And then you committed your unspeakable crime, Adam. And I knew what I had to do. You are wise, Adam. You are strong and brave. And you cruel, Adam. You are selfish, and that is why only you can save them." A single tear pearled from her unseeing eye, ran down her muzzle and fell to the floor.

As boys, they had been inseparable; now one had become a man too soon and Henn hadn't spoken to him since. Dorian stood by himself, literally with his back to the herd, staring over the horizon. Friends of his mother had come by with the usual sincere condolences and promises of support, and Dorian had ignored them all. The bridge between him and the world had collapsed and Henn could do nothing but look at him from the opposite bank. Now nobody came to talk to Dorian anymore. Without milk he would die, and fade away from the herd's collective memory like so many other calves. Death was their age-old travel companion and nobody had even considered to interfere on Dorian's behalf.

Nobody, but one. But it wasn't Henn. Not he stayed by Dorian's side, but a young cow he didn't know. They ate together, talked together, and slept side by side. Henn stared at the pair of backs time and time again, trying to place her somewhere in his memory. Dorian had no sisters. He was far too young to mate. Henn just couldn't figure it out. Of course he could have stepped up to Dorian at any point, offered his support and sked to be introduced. But he didn't. He saw Dorian bearing the loss of his mother with a spectacular strength and maturity, apparently something that young woman inspired in him. Henn was jealous. His best friend was going through the hardest time in his life and he was getting along just fine without him. Henn's own selfishness disgusted him, and made it crystal clear what a coward he was.

He lay in the grass, listening to his mother's breathing. She made a minute movement, which told Henn she was awake. "Mom?" "Yes, honey?"

Silence.

"Yes, honey?" "I don't know what to do about Dorian." Areëh was wide awake now. She heard the grief for in her son's voice, not for the dead mother, but for the dying child. "He needs his friends now more than ever, dear. You don't have to say or do anything, just let him know you're there." "That's it? Just say "Here I am"?" "That's all you can do."

As well as she meant it, that last phrase stung Henn. That was all he could do.

"Well... okay, then." "So what are you going to do?" "Go up to him let him know I'm there." "Sounds good."Areëh pressed her nose against Henn's head. " You'll do fine, sweetheart."

Henn didn't look reassured. She waited.

"I see him with a cow all the time that I've never seen before. I don't know what he's doing with that woman."

"A woman?" Areëh frowned. "Who?" "I don't know who, that's the point." Areëh searched her memory. She had been watching Dorian closely, as was expected of her, but she hadn't seen him speak to words to an adult since the death of his mother. "Hang on," she asked Henn. "Does she have a black spot over her left eye?" "Yes, that's the one. Do you know who that is?" To Henn's irritation, his mother laughed.

"Sorry, sorry. I'm not laughing at you. Oh honey, that's not a woman! That's a calf, just like you! Don't you recognise her?" Henn obviously didn't. "That's little Dina, she's only few months older than you." "Oh." Henn still wasn't satisfied. He had no idea who this was and he'd never seen her around Dorian either. Areëh saw his annoyed expression and nuzzled his ear.

"Her mother was Lucia, the cow who died a few weeks ago. I think she can relate to Dorian in that way because they've both lost their mothers." Henn was quiet, but something in his posture relaxed. He understood now. He thanked his mother and nestled in to go to sleep. He listened to Areëh's breathing until he was convinced she couldn't hear him anymore. Then he said:

"You're wrong. She's grown."

Chapter 3: Blood

The morning had a crispy, fragile chill to it that would break within half an hour. Henn stood up shivering from the dew-soaked grass he'd lain on. He was surrounded by fog. Areëh was still asleep. When he bent down to lick her face, she felt cold as snow. He was dazed, as if he'd been drinking, his legs trembled with fatigue. Everywhere on the ground were cows and bulls, looking like the fallen leaves of a gigantic tree. The fog became denser. Was there nobody awake? Then, in the distance, he saw a wolf. She materialized out of the mist, white as a cloud, and ever so slowly she came towards him. The chill sunk so deep into his bones, Henn couldn't even shiver anymore.

"You never meant to hurt anybody," the wolf said. Henn's thoughts were so slow, so heavy. "How can I fix it?" He asked. "It's not yours to fix, little one." She smiled. The wolf was blind, but her milky eyes didn't scare Henn at all. He suddenly noticed how much smaller than him she was. Or was he just bigger than he realized? The old wolf's nose barely reached his chest. "The old feeds the young," she said. "It is only the way of the world." In the distance he heard a rumbling sound, like thunder coming from the earth. Henn looked behind him and saw a massive herd passing by in the distance. Their hooves left no footprints in the pristine dew, nor in the deck of clouds they walked on. Proudly they marched on, healthy and without fear. Was that Dorian he recognized among them? Cows and bulls alike, fertile and strong. Was that his future? The old wolf was gone. The fog became denser and denser around him, but it was no longer cold, but warm. A soothing warmth that separated him from the herd in the distance, until he was finally alone in milky bliss.

Henn woke up with a nosebleed. To his left was a familiar face, to his right a familiar body. "Honey? Are you all right?" He was suddenly fully awake as if he'd been schocked, the chilly morning air slapped him in the face. Areëh's voice was like an injection of caffeine to the brain, though not intended as such. His mother saw his unrest. "Henn, can you hear me? Did you have a bad dream?" The sticky substance on his face wasn't blood, but milk. He'd been drinking in his sleep like he hadn't done in a long time; It waved back and forth in his stomach when he stood up. He jumped up and walked, most of the cows were just waking up. Some sleepily turned their heads when he stumbled by. An irrefutable instinct told him where to go. "Henn, wait!" Areëh tried to stand up as well. She pushed off from the ground and was surprised at her own weight. With trembling legs, like a newborn, she scrambled up and followed her son. Henn saw his mother stumble to her feet and remembered his dream. Something in him connected the dots. A tiny entity in his brain whispered to him, just too softly to understand. No, he thought, that would be impossible...

With a brick on his stomach he made his way through the crowd. He was too big now to walk between the legs of the adults, like he used to, but still too small to shove them aside. He squirmed and squeezed until he could see.

Flat, drained, and lifeless. The cows in the front tried not to come closer to the body than a few feet, while the ones in the back were pushing and shoving to see it. On the other side, the calf was being pushed back by two large bulls, who were having a hard time keeping it away. "What's going on," it protested, "Let me go, I want to see!" Henn, to his relief, didn't recognize its voice. A female, probably... The calf had apparently seen, something, because it began to wail. Henn had never wanted to get away from somewhere so badly. He turned around and charged headfirst back into the crowd, not caring who he hit in the process.

"Henn!" That was Areëh's voice. She came running at him, bit out of breath but steadier on her feet. "What happened?" She froze when she saw Henn's face.

It could have been you tonight, he thought. He wanted nothing more than to talk to her, but he couldn't. Without a word, Henn passed her and walked away. Areëh was powerless to stop him. An invisible curtain had been lowered between her and her child. He's grown so much already, she thought._ _

She didn't want to go look at the dead cow. Perhaps it was someone she knew, perhaps that didn't make a difference. She looked at the herd in a way she'd never done before. The laid-back worldview that was so typical to cattle suddenly seemed moronic to her. They had apparently accepted the periodical deaths as a normal occurrence already, instead of panicking like any rational species would do. And who's to say they're wrong, she thought cynically. Maybe I'm the one overreacting...

Lost in gloomy thought she brushed someone big. It took her a moment to recognize him as Adam. His head was hanging down as if he was grazing, and he dragged his feet as if he hadn't slept all night. He hadn't seen Areëh and she almost let him pass completely before she realized she needed to talk to him. Maybe it was Henn's strange behavior, or the law of three that had made her realize it; she was no less vulnerable.

She had to call Adam's name four times before he even looked up. For a moment, he seemed happy to see a familiar face.

"I thought they'd lynch me as soon as I set foot in here." "You sound disappointed." "I don't get it, Areëh. How can they be this relaxed? He made a sweeping gesture to indicate everything that was happening around them. "I promised all of you I'd do something to make sure exactly this didn't happen, and now..." "You never promised us anything, Adam. They know you did what you could, which was apparently not enough to stop it. So they've accepted it now. Mysterious disappearance of your insides is a natural cause of death now." She was quiet for a moment, surprised by her own insight. Areëh was well aware of the authority she held. She was their prioress and den mother, the first among equals. She wondered for the first time if that made her more or less a part of the herd. If I'm the only one like me, she thought, then what gives me the right?

These thoughts were vague and poorly defined. "I didn't sleep well tonight," she explained herself to Adam, even though he had no idea what she was talking about.

"Uh... Okay. After a brief and awkward silence, Adam nodded and almost walked away. Areëh remembered what she'd wanted to say just in time. "Hang on," she told him. "There's something I need to ask you." Adam didn't respond.

"Hello? Are you still with me?" Adam sighed deeply. "I don't know if I'm the one to ask." "You don't know what I'm going to ask you." "I don't have a talent for helping, Areëh." "Believe me, if I had anyone else to turn to, I wouldn't be here."

One of Adam's canines flickered under his lip.

"I'm sorry, that came out wrong. What I meant..." "Don't tell me what you meant." Adam refused to look at her. "Just tell me what you need." For a moment, Areëh considered trying to apologize.

"I'm scared for my life, Adam. As I think everyone is. "

"Not the calves or the bulls."

Or you, Areëh thought. She didn't ask why Adam forgot to include himself.

"I have no idea why it only targets the mothers, Areëh. It's beyond me. The whole thing is bigger than us." "Don't be getting superstitious on me now, Adam." She took a deep breath.

"I need you to protect Henn, when the time comes that he'll need protection."

That was the question. All of it. Adam's eyed were wide as saucers, but that could have been because of the sleepless night he'd had. "Adam?" Areëh was starting to become seriously annoyed. "Can I count on you to do that?"

"Henn doesn't need my protection, or my help. He needs you."

"I know that. Don't you think Dorian needed his mother too? And what's-her-name, Lucia's girl? Or the little one that lost her mother today?"

"I..."

"Dina, that's her name." Areëh sounded almost triumphant. She took no heed to whatever Adam was trying to say. " Should something happen to me, I want you to give Henn whatever kind of support he needs. Find him a surrogate for milk. I don't care if you have to force some cow here, you owe it to me to..."

"He doesn't need milk." Areëh stopped mid-sentence and frowned.

"He's been grazing. I saw him just a few days ago. He kept it down without a problem."

Areëh shook her head, slowly at first, then rapidly and with conviction.

"No, no, you're wrong. You must be confused." "I'm not confused." Adam looked completely sure of himself. And although Areëh didn't think it possible, he was right. It takes some distance to see a person change. Adam wasn't the only one who'd seen it. Henn ate with the bulls in the field, almost starting to enjoy the taste. It wasn't as bitter or as tough as it had once been. He knew very well that the grass was the same as always, it was his sense of taste that had become less sensitive, and his jaws that had grown stronger. It was a sign, he could have had no better indication that he could indeed do what he knew he had to.

Henn had to look up. Dorian was a head taller than him, though he seemed to have shrunken mentally. He was disturbingly down to earth, which Henn obviously couldn't blame him for. Dina fit him like a glove, decisively submissive to him and utterly doubtless of their future together. Henn told him they needed to talk, and he immediately complied, asking Dina to give them a minute.

"No," Henn said. "Stay, please. It's horrible, but this affects all of us." Dina looked at him doubtfully, as if she was wondering whether or not to take him seriously. Henn suddenly realized he was a small child in her eyes; he might have thought that funny in another life. He was thankful that Dorian was there, and that after everything that had happened and the mistakes they'd both made he could still count on him.

"What happened to your mothers was not your fault. I want to make that very clear before we go any further. There was nothing you could have done to prevent it." There is no turning back now. But we can prevent it from happening again." Henn tried to gauge their reactions for any doubt or distrust, especially from Dina. Both of them seemed unfazed.

"Whatever it takes." Dorian said. He appeared to be completely serious and Henn couldn't help but admire his resolve. The typical immovable determination of a bull protecting his herd.

"The disease that kills the mothers doesn't infect from victim to victim," Henn said, "but from calf to calf. The patients are not them, but us. You may have noticed that you've grown unusually fast over the past few months." Dorian and Dina gave one another sheepish looks that suggested they were just noticing it now for the first time. Perhaps that makes sense, Henn thought. You can only see through your own eyes.

"And... this extra growth comes at the mother's expense?" That question came from Dina made Henn feel a wave of relief. They understood. And at the same time, he could clearly and painfully feel their guilt. "Once again, there was no way you could have known this or done anything about it. This is not your fault." Dina looked him in the eye and he knew immediately which question she wasn't asking him. How do you know all this? But she didn't ask, and neither did Dorian. They simply had faith. Henn felt a massive amount of respect and responsibility for the both of them.

"We've grown up, and now it's time to be adults," Henn said. "It is the way of the world."

Night fell hard and suddenly around Adam that evening, without dragging him down in the abyss of sleep. He wanted nothing more than to sleep, seeing as how he'd been awake for over 24 hours now, and knew very well how much that would wear him down in the long run. But he couldn't. Here was his failure, for all to see. He patrolled the clearing, knowing that everyone else knew that they were up against something that no amount of vigilance could protect them from. An enemy that was intangible and undiscerning. He looked at their faces. Left a calf gave him a smile, right a yawning bull nodded at him politely. Not the slightest trace of resentment or animosity to be found. He couldn't make sense of it. How many of them would wake up in the morning? Who would wake up to feed, banter, walk and sleep another day? Were they at all concerned?

And as if on cue, he noticed three figures in the distance. He couldn't recognize them from here, but there was no doubt that they belonged to this herd. They stood like statues, looking out over them. The mist and darkness began to obscure them from view and Adam suddenly found himself running towards them, before his eyes could no longer make them out. Something told him this was not a late-night conference or a game. An instinct more powerful and commanding then he'd experienced for a long time told him this was his last chance to find whatever it was that he needed. They had a calf with them, he could see now. They wouldn't be able to escape him in open terrain, and they made no effort to. The calf in the front, three adults behind him, simply waited for Adam to catch up.

He was panting when he did, even though he'd had no reason to run in the first place. "What are you doing?"

"What must be done," The calf replied. "We're leaving this herd." It was Henn. As soon as Adam recognized him, he realized how strange it was that he had spoken for them. For this club of four. The three others stood behind him, looking at Adam and waiting for Henn to finish with him. United. Solidified. An impenetrable block of muscle and skin, and they were waiting for Henn's signal.

"What are you talking about?" "It's not a disease, Adam. It doesn't infect from mother to mother, but from calf to calf. It speeds up the aging for both the calf and the mother, but as the calf grows stronger, the mother is hollowed out. And then it jumps to another calf. I will not let that happen to me."

"That's out of the question." Adam's mind was racing. "The proof is standing right here," Henn said, gesturing with his head to his entourage. "No, I mean the idea of you leaving. That's idiotic, that's out of..." "That was never a question, Adam." "Go back to your sleeping places now." Adam raised his hairs, knowing his size had an intimidating effect. "We're not discussing this." "No," Henn said calmly, "We're not." None of them moved an inch.

Adam felt threatened in the presence of cattle for the first time in five years. They had an unsettling power emanating from them, an unnatural sense of purpose, and a truly terrifying thought came over him. Could the calf be right? Did what he was saying make sense? The lack of sleep made it impossible to think straight, as if all his thoughts were out of focus

Adam, It's the way of the world." Henn wasn't scared of what would come anymore. "There won't come an end to the tragedy as long as we stay here," Henn said. He was incomprehensibly calm, while Adam felt his panic and anger rise with every heartbeat. "I'm glad we still got a chance to see you, Adam."

"Henn, please. Your mother..." "Don't. Please don't. I have to do this to protect my mother, which she may never come to understand, but you do understand. Don't pretend it is otherwise. It will be hard for her at first, but she'll have you. And she'll be alive. I know how hard you've tried to help us all, and we're truly grateful to you."

"Thank you, Adam. " That was one of the females. Her sudden speaking confused him for a moment. "Thank you," The other one agreed. The large male by Henn's side just nodded.

There Adam stood, feeling older than he ever had. The weight of his defeat pushed his bones into the earth. There was so much that he had to say, but couldn't think of right now. All he said was: "Thank you for what?" The group looked to Henn to speak for them again, which he did. "For trying." The large male looked behind him, which must have been a hint, because Henn said: "Yes, Dorian. We're going." Physically, the invisible line that separated child from adult still divided Henn from the others, and yet he was undeniably in charge. He didn't even have to do anything for it. Adam saw that now. He wondered if he'd ever really known Henn before this moment. Henn turned around, waited, he hesitated to give Adam his last chance to do or say something. There was only one thing he could think of.

"Your mother will be... broken if you disappear. Possibly beyond repair." Adam saw something in Henn shudder with guilt and felt intensely sorry for what he'd just said.

"I'd be broken beyond repair if she died," Henn said. "I want to spare myself that, I'll admit that. But that's not why we have to do this. It's not just her life on the line."

Adam looked down. They were still waiting. Waiting for Adam to say something. Something so that they could leave with their conscience eased.

"Does it matter what I say?" Adam asked.

Henn thought about that for a second. "It won't change anything," he said, "but it will matter to me."

Adam looked into the eyes of a man in every sense of the word and said:

"Make this worth it."

Adam watched them go over the horizon, and still he didn't turn around. He didn't turn back until the sun was already coming up again. He wondered if his task was now finally complete, his penance served. Instinctively, he knew it wasn't and never would be. He was an old man. He had been for a long time already. His future was now and tomorrow, no more.

But the herd would live on. He would have to tell Areëh the truth at some point, and live with the guilt. And he would never be entirely sure if he'd been courageous to carry that guilt, or if he'd simply had no choice.

Areëh didn't hear Adam approach as she slept out the last few hours of her happy life. She didn't hear him smell her, kneel down and pray for her sake that she would never love anyone ever again.