I fed it broth till its belly was stretching my sleeve. It was almost beginning to look kind of cute to me. I was in a bad way. But you do get like this with your orphans. If they eat you feel all…mothery. (Mom had been really good with the orphans—maybe almost as good as Eric. I remember getting old enough to ask her, kind of anxiously, if taking care of me had been as bad as the stuff at Eric’s orphanage. She’d laughed and said oh no, I was much, much worse.) I slid the dragonlet out of my sleeve again and it was either falling asleep because it was full and happy or slipping into its final coma, but it didn’t struggle so much this time. I pulled my shirt off and wrapped it up in that because I had a clean shirt in my backpack, and if one of us was going to have the clean shirt I’d rather it was me, and then I put it as near the fire as I thought I could without making dragonlet toast, or anyway setting my shirt on fire.
I looked at the inside of my wrist where it had been lying. The skin there is even thinner than on your stomach, and it was actually burned. Jeez. So I got the wound salve out that is part of the basic kit Billy makes you carry, like waterproof matches and a hatchet to make kindling and a pot to boil water, and put some on, and then I had dinner, which took about three minutes because I was so hungry and tired and shaky.
But by the time I’d finished eating, make that bolting, the wretched dragonlet was mewing again, and trying to get out of the shirt. “Oh, give me a break,” I said. I thought maybe I’d put it too close to the fire, so I picked it up, and it went floppy instantly, but then the moment I put it down again it was mewing and thrashing, to the extent that something the size of your hand and with legs an inch and a half long and is maybe three or six hours old can thrash. “You’re ugly and you smell,” I said.
So fatalistically I put it back inside my clean shirt and it scuffled a little like you might thump your pillow with your fist, and then went to sleep. Which made one of us. It had managed to relieve itself on my old shirt, so that was really delightful, and I got my jackknife out and hacked off the dirtiest bits and then sort of tucked the rest of the old shirt around its rear end where it was asleep inside my new shirt and leaving fresh red marks on my stomach. I lay down gingerly on my side clutching it with my other hand so that the old shirt around its rear end wouldn’t fall off and wondering if I’d get any sleep at all because what if I rolled over on it? Not merely squished dragonlet but squished full-of-deer-broth dragonlet. By then I was probably a little hysterical.
I did sleep but I didn’t sleep much. Every time it moved I woke up, and I suppose my brain had been working in my sleep or something because by the first time it woke me up I’d figured that a dragonlet probably had to be fed every ten minutes or something because if it was in its mom’s pouch it would probably be permanently stuck on a nipple for the first six months or so, which is what happens with the ordinary true-mammal marsupials we know about and makes sense. And a lot of ordinary orphans you do have to feed round the clock. (Maybe Eric’s personality was just the result of chronic sleep shortage, although all of the—human—adults took turns for the middle of the night, and Mom and Katie and Jane never got anything like Eric gets, even on no sleep. Although Dad got a little scratchy.) I was trying to remember how long they think the full-time pouch span is for a dragon, but if I’d ever known I’d forgotten and it didn’t really matter at the moment since this was only the first night.
Every time it wiggled I woke up, groggily—now I was definitely talking out loud to keep myself awake—and the first time I had to pour the rest of the broth back into the pot and heat it in the embers because it’s not a good idea to leave food around even in summer when there’s plenty of other stuff to eat for anything wandering by. But after the first time I thought the hell with it and just put the top on the pot and left it in the fire, and I know this completely destroys your respect for me as someone who should be allowed to go on his first solo, and you’re right, but you weren’t there. And it was still a horrible night (even though nobody tried to eat our broth and then have us for dessert), and I used almost all of the firewood I’d collected after all, keeping the fire going.
And to the extent I did sleep, it was like I was afraid to move at all, so I woke up every time in exactly the same position because it suited trying to hold the damn dragonlet in the position it liked, and by morning when I stopped even pretending to sleep my whole right side was like paralyzed and I had a headache like you wouldn’t believe, although really I’d had the headache since everything happened yesterday afternoon. And to think a few days ago I’d been feeling that just relearning to sleep on the ground was tough. I may have slept as much as an hour that last spell before dawn. When I tried to sit up I yelped like a dog when you’ve stepped on its tail. But I felt the dragonlet stir. My stomach felt scalded so I already knew it was still alive. It was probably hungry again too. I hurt too much to be hungry. “You still there, Ugly?” I said.
I got the fire going properly again (nice hot embers, I thought resentfully, regularly blown on and fed sticks—the dragonlet would have been fine lying next to the fire all night) and put some more water on to heat and threw another chunk of meat in. At home Dad makes me eat vegetables but when I’m in the park I turn carnivore. Billy never makes me eat vegetables even though most of the year he can usually find green stuff to eat wherever he is. Even I know about waterweed. I just don’t eat it. And I bet dragons don’t either. I wasn’t going to endanger the dragonlet’s fragile welfare by threatening it with vegetable matter.
It had done some more on my old shirt, so I cut those bits out. I needed to get back to the Institute soon because I was running out of shirt. Then we did the broth thing again and while in one way it was easier because I was getting in practice it didn’t seem to want to open its mouth any wider than it absolutely had to and now in daylight again the corners of its mouth looked sort of, well, chapped, maybe. So I put some wound salve on it and wondered if maybe that would poison it, and some more on the inside of my wrist, and then I cruelly let it lie near the fire in a nice warm pile of ashes (I checked) while I cleaned up in the hope that it would do some of its business before I had to wrap it up in what remained of my old shirt again and put it next to my stomach, and it did. So that was something.
But it had also mewed and thrashed while I left it—it had added a sort of high-pitched peep to its repertoire on its second day of life—so by the time I finally did put it back inside my shirt it was exhausted and went to sleep instantly. At least I assume that’s what it was doing when it did its pillow-punching trick and didn’t move for a while. By now I could feel it breathing—I don’t know if it was breathing better or I was learning the mom marsupial drill—and, of course, it was burning holes in the skin of my stomach.