The inside of Mira's hut was worse than Viktor expected.
One room. Maybe twelve feet by twelve feet. Dirt floor packed hard from years of footsteps. A straw bed in the corner that smelled of mold and sickness.
A cracked clay pot for cooking sat near a fire pit that hadn't been lit in days. One tiny window with cloth covering it instead of glass—too poor even for that.
The smell hit him immediately. Sweat, illness, poverty. It soaked into everything.
In the corner was Toby's space—a stained blanket, a wooden toy with one wheel missing.
Viktor sat Toby down on the straw bed. The boy didn't resist, just stared at nothing with those vacant eyes.
Viktor examined him methodically. Pulse—weak and irregular. Tongue—pale, almost gray. Skin—clammy and cold despite the stuffiness of the hut.
"What does he eat?" Viktor asked.
"Whatever I can find," Mira said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Bread when we can afford it. Thin soup most days. Sometimes dried grains."
"Water source?"
