She is dreaming. The girl is remembering something distant, in a dark splotch of her life that she can only recall in the deepest recesses of her mind. It is a scene she has seen play out a thousand times, and she knows she will see it thousands more. There is a silhouette strolling down a darkened street. It is twilight, just ere break of day. The streetlamps have all fizzled out, and he walks wreathed in darkness. The silhouette belongs to an old man. He holds himself with dignity, a cane clutched in his good hand to support his weight. His clothes are all black, and a short cloak is draped over his shoulders.

His pace is leisurely, and he is humming to himself. His face is wreathed in old, gray hair and a thick beard. His ravaged and wrinkled features are cranked into a mischievous smile, and his notes are interspersed with light chuckles. His left arm is clutched up against himself, and in it he holds precious cargo: a young girl, barely old enough to be called more than a toddler. Her hair is ruffled and a dull shade of red, flattened as her head is pressed up against his shoulder. The girl is not responsive, and her body jumps and shifts with every adjustment in the old man’s step. Her eyes stare blankly at the man who is carrying her, unblinking and immobile. The man is staring straight ahead, but every once in a while he glances over, checking on the state of his charge. He still feels life in her hands, clutching the fabric of his hands out of an instinctive desire to live. But he feels her grip loosening. He takes another glance at her neck, or what is left. Her soft, white flesh has been torn apart by ravenous, razor-sharp teeth, ripping away her gullet as simply as a child bites into a fresh apple. A slurry of half-dried blood has slid from her throat and caked onto his cloak. Her eyes are blank and hold no spark of life. They have taken on a hue red as the blood that falls from her wounds.

But she is alive. The man knows this much. Her chest is pressed up against his, and he can still feel her faint heartbeat. The pitter-patter of her little organ amuses him, and the man smiles at her.

“Little miracles. Strange little people like you are what make life worth living, you know?”

The girl hears him, dulled and distant, but clear. But she does not understand what he means when he says that.

“I believe that anyone else in your position would have already given in and just died already. But something’s different about you, isn’t there? Maybe you’re just a little too stubborn to die?”

The old man laughs, throwing his head back and putting his heart into the motion. The warmth he projects to the girl is strange and confusing. Not nurturing or caring, like a parent. The affection he shows seems to her like the type that is stumbled upon and not sought out. It is a sensation she has never understood, to be cared for not because she was known of and intentionally saved, but to be stumbled across by accident, and on a whim chosen to live. That is the feeling this girl receives in this man’s arms.

“But, even if you got lucky…”

He glances again at her wound, and for a moment his old face looks severe and doubtful.

“You won’t last much longer with that wound. Too much blood lost. You’ll definitely die.”

He makes a factual observation, not out of malice or amusement. It is merely the truth. Even if he has stumbled across this girl and deigned to pick her up from the puddle of blood he found her in, that is all he has done. Her wounds are beyond treatment. There is no possibility for recovery. There is nothing within the realm of possibility that can save her life.

Even so. The man cackles, wheezing like an old man as he adjusts his arm, hefting the girl a bit as he picks up his tempo of travel.

“Still, we’re pretty close now. Maybe if you keep that stubbornness up a little bit longer… I might be able to do at least something.”

He smiles as the first rays of the sun peek over the horizon, bathing their street in a warm orange glow. He descends the hill they are on, down into town.

“Are you old enough to know what a wager is? I think I’d like to make one with you: if you survive until I’ve taken you somewhere safe, then I’ll give you a prize. It’s very valuable, honest!”

He laughs childishly at his peculiar attempt at a joke, and pulls the child a little closer into his embrace, reaching the bottom of the hill, turning right at an intersection. Ahead of them is not the city, but a deep and secluded forest. He stands motionless for a moment, glancing at the girl, wondering if she had the strength to reply.

“Well?”

The girl is paralyzed. There is no breath left in her scorched, aching lungs. Her heart is beating faintly, as slowly as it might to conserve blood. She is awake but cannot move, and yet she must. She feels a deep certainty that her survival revolves around this man, and he will not take her into that forest unless she agrees. But she has no means to do so. Her chapped lips part, and with all her might, she draws in air, even if almost nothing can get through her mangled throat.

And with this one breath she blows outward, and through her lips the tiniest whistle plays a note in the air. The old man’s smile widens, and he laughs at her proudly. He regains his pace and steps into the forest, taking her beyond the watchful eyes of men, and into a world she knows nothing of.

“Ha! Very well then. A wager it is.”