The Wolf and the Cat

7---seven---7

Pete stares at the small puddle forming at the corner of his house. It must be raining again. Reluctantly, he pulls himself from his bed, places a bucket beneath the drip, and thinks about how he needs to fix the roof. He never will. He knows that.

The shack is too quiet. Pete grabs a couple pieces of meat, rubbing his tired eyes while he eats. He slept like a rock last night, best night of sleep he's had in years. Maybe it's because he got to see that waterfall. But it's probably because he had to carry Patrick everywhere.

Pete looks at the empty bed. Patrick.

"What the fuck!?" Pete drops the food in his hand and looks around the shack for the strawberry blonde.

No wonder the shack was silent. Patrick's not here. Pete opens his door, shielding his eyes from the rain. He calls for Patrick, looking around the trees. He couldn't have gotten far, not with his foot the way it is.

Pete's foot slips into a crater in the mud. There's another one too, and another, and another. A trail. Fantastic. It's Patrick no doubt, mainly because the craters are in a single line, and there's no sign of more than one foot stepping down.

The trail leads to a mess of bushes and Pete spots the small boy plucking large leaves off the branches.

"What the hell are you doing?" Pete frowns.

Patrick looks up, offering a smile. "I'm getting leaves."

"No shit," Pete crosses his arms. "Why?"

"I think I can make myself a cast," Patrick grins. "If I soak the leaves in mud and clay before wrapping my foot in them, it'll dry and harden."

"You could have woken me up."

"You were so peaceful," Patrick stands, keeping his right foot propped off the ground.

Pete doesn't hesistate to scoop him up.  "You'll break your other foot."

"I wasn't done collecting leaves!"

"Your foot is tiny, those leaves are enough."

Patrick pouts, but Pete ignores him. He safely drops Patrick on his bed, inside the dry shack. The leaves are dropped on the ground and swept into a pile.

"I still need mud and clay," Patrick narrows his eyes.

Pete rolls his eyes, but grabs container and heads outside. Patrick slips off his shoe and checks out the bruising and swelling. It's gotten worse.

"That should be enough," Pete sits on the floor, sliding the bucket to Patrick. "Do you need help?"

"Nope," Patrick grabs a leaf and swirls it in the container, once covered, he adheres it to his foot.

Pete helps anyways. He straightens and gently flattens every leaf Patrick sticks to his foot, watching them turn to a light brown when they dry. His toes peek out from the top, but ultimately he has himself a decent cast. It's solid too.

"Can you walk on it?"

"I dunno," Patrick pulls himself up, carefully applying pressure to the casted foot. He's able to step on it, only wincing slightly.

"Seems like it's better than before," Pete observes every motion.

"Still hurts a little," Patrick mutters. "But at least I can kind of walk."

"I'll still carry you."

"You don't have to," Patrick shakes his head. "I'll get some sticks and make some crutches."

"Don't. I'll carry you," Pete grabs the container, stepping outside to pour out the leftover mud. He leaves it in the rain to rinse on its own.

"I already told you that--"