Osiris had seen many terrifying things in his life.
Creatures with too many teeth.
Night beasts with glowing eyes.
Isabella when she woke up angry.
Nothing, however, was as terrifying as a sick Glimora refusing medicine.
And Isabella, sick, exhausted, nasal voice ruined, was one wrong sneeze away from losing her sanity.
The tiny furball clung to the blanket like a war general preparing for death.
Isabella stared at her with tired, heavy eyes. "Glimora. Drink. The medicine."
Glimora shook her head so hard her whole body wobbled.
"No," her squeak said.
Isabella rubbed her forehead. Overwhelmed. Weak. Dying.
"Osiris," she muttered. "Hold her."
Osiris, who had been sitting like a traumatized decorative statue, widened his eyes. "Why me."
"Because I said so."
"That is not a good reason."
"It is the only reason. I do not have energy to argue. Hold her."
Osiris sighed dramatically, scooped Glimora up, and immediately regretted being born.
