I do not understand. But still I hug the screaming boy.
Adam flails in my arms. He screams and tugs and kicks, and all I can do is hold him gentler as I kneel gingerly on the dusty concrete. The floor is cold and hard.
“Master Adam,” I say. “Please do not cry. It will only cause your health to worsen.”
But his bawling only intensifies. I cannot move, for his short arms are wrapped around my midsection, and the yellow icon pulsing in the corner of my vision tells me that excessive movement would be unwise.
A stifled sob from the entryway prompts me to look up. My mistress’ head is buried in my master’s shoulder. I look to him for answer or direction, but instead he turns to study the rusty automobile to his left. His cheeks glint bright in the sunlight. I find myself confused, and return my attention to the boy.