There's a chill in the air, not just from the cold. The cabin creaks and groans around Henry, settling into the earth like an old, tired beast. Henry lies there, his body frail and heavy, the weight of his many years, pressing down on him like an anvil. The last fire he would ever be able to make, crackles, spitting embers onto the stone hearth. They glow, then die, like simple, tiny, fleeting lives.

     Henry is a poor old man, with less and less strength every day, and he's running out of time. The doctor's words still echo in his mind, a cold, hard truth. "Cancer. Terminal. Months, maybe weeks." 

He's alone, no family left. Just Henry, and him.

Brutus. His dog. His boy. He's all Henry has now.

     The poor, old, withering man can barely move anymore. The pain is a constant companion, gnawing at his insides. He's trapped in his bed, at the mercy of his own failing body. But Brutus...he needs the old man. He's starving, his ribs showing, his eyes dull. Henry knows he just has to keep him going, no matter what.

     His hand trembles as he calls out to Brutus. "Brutus...come here, boy." He pads over, his tail wagging weakly. Henry reaches out, his fingers brushing his best friend’s fur. It's dull, matted. Henry thinks to himself, “He needs me to shave him, but I can't even do that anymore.”

     Henry takes a deep breath, steeling himself. “I have to do this. For him,” he says out loud, for his audience of one. He pushes his finger into the dog’s mouth. Brutus licks it, whining softly. "Bite, boy," Henry whispers. "Please...bite."

     Brutus doesn’t respond. There's nothing. The old man keeps trying, the dog whines. the old man keeps encouraging the saddened dog. Then there was a flash of pain, and the old man feels the dog's teeth sink into his skin. Then, into his bone. The old man gasps, and Brutus whimpers and starts to pull away, but Henry insists, and calls the dog back, pressing his bloody finger back into the dog’s mouth. The dog slowly bites down, watching his master’s reaction. But Henry does his best to show no pain, or negative reaction. He lets the dog gnaw on him, his blood trickling into Brutus’ mouth. He's eating, at least. That's all that matters.

     Days blend together. The world outside fades away. All that exists is this cabin, and Brutus, and Henry. Their world is growing smaller and smaller, as is their time together. Henry feeds him his own flesh, bit by agonizing bit. Brutus starts to grow stronger, his eyes brightening. His fur loses its dullness, ever so slightly. He's thriving, even as Henry withers away.

     Henry is not even sure how much of himself is left anymore. He can't barely open his eyes and he cannot lift his head. He can feel himself being consumed, bit by bit. Brutus is always there, his eyes fixed on the dying old man. He's patient, waiting. Unsure exactly what’s going on. The only thing Brutus knows for sure is that he’s eating the best he's ever eaten before. Henry not the good boy's master anymore. He is his lifeline. He is the dog's second chance at life. At least for a while. 

     Henry tries to fight the never-ending pain, but it's no use. It has become a living thing, eating at him. He's too weak to resist. Even if he wanted Brutus to stop eating him, there was no way to make him stop. Not now that he had this smorgasbord. All Henry can do now is lie there and feel himself being devoured. Brutus’ teeth are in him, his hot breath washing over Henry's skin. Henry thinks to himself “I'm cold, so cold. I can feel my life ebbing away, flowing into him.”

     The old man is not scared, though. He's just...tired. Tired of the pain, tired of knowing that once he passes, his dog will be alone, with no one else that will ever be willing to do what he has for Brutus. He's done what he had to do. Henry kept him alive. That's all that matters. As the darkness closes in, Henry feels a strange sort of peace. He is not alone. Brutus is with him, always. They are best friends. Together. until the end.

And even after.