I hadn't eaten in three days.
Or maybe four.
Time had become a thing that only existed in pain.
Each hour was just more of it.
Hunger, thirst, cold. Repeat. Hunger, thirst, cold.
My body ached constantly. My ribs were sharper now, poking out like knives under my skin. My throat was dry, my lips cracked. When I walked, I staggered. When I stood too long, I collapsed.
And the city?
The city was dead.
Tenochtitlan wasn't burning anymore. The fires had moved on.
Now it was just smoke and bones.
The canals had turned black. Floating bodies, bloated and purple, clogged the water. Fish had fled. Dogs had gone feral. Children wandered alone, barefoot and starving, skin blistered by the sun.
I saw a girl—six or seven years old—gnawing on leather. Not cooked meat. Actual leather. A sandal strap.
She didn't even cry.
Just chewed.
That was the new normal.
I found myself in what used to be a market district. You could still see the stalls—burnt, smashed, looted. Scattered beans. Shattered pots. Blood everywhere.
And then… a sound.
Not war.
Not footsteps.
Crying.
I followed it slowly. I don't know why. Maybe the human part of me hadn't completely rotted out yet. Maybe it was instinct.
It came from a collapsed building—half a roof and a shattered wall. Inside was a boy. Maybe nine. Filthy. Thin. His face was bruised and one arm was twisted wrong. He was cradling something.
I stepped closer.
A woman.
Dead. Maybe his mother.
I froze.
He looked at me like an animal. Wide eyes. Tear-streaked cheeks.
I raised my hands, slow. Gentle.
"Hey… it's okay. I'm not here to hurt you."
He didn't move.
"I just want to help."
Still nothing.
"I can… I can carry you. We'll find food. Somewhere safe."
I crouched down. Memories flashed behind my eyes—YouTube videos about disaster relief, articles about child psychology. I remembered all the advice: speak calmly, keep eye contact, lower yourself, don't crowd them.
"I'm here to help you," I whispered.
And just as I reached out to him—
He bit me.
Hard. His teeth sank into the soft flesh of my forearm. I screamed and yanked back, but he didn't stop. He bit again, kicked, clawed like a wild dog.
Then came the voice.
"Get away from my brother!"
A girl, older than him, maybe thirteen. Thin as bone, her face bruised and her legs trembling—but she had a broken obsidian shard in her hand, and she lunged at me with it.
I stumbled back. She slashed. The edge tore into my arm. Not deep—but enough to bleed.
"You're one of them!" she screamed. "Get away!"
"I'm not—! I'm just—!"
"Liar!"
I ran.
I didn't even try to explain.
Didn't try to fight back.
I just ran.
I collapsed behind a stone bench a few blocks away, clutching my arm, biting down on the pain.
The cut wasn't deep, but it burned. My stomach growled loud enough to echo.
I laughed.
Quiet. Dry. Broken.
I had tried.
Tried to help.
Tried to bring something—anything—from the world I'd come from.
Compassion. Humanity. Empathy.
And it got me slashed.
The books, the videos, the articles.
How to de-escalate conflict.
How to work with trauma victims.
How to be a good person.
None of it mattered here.
Here, mercy meant nothing.
Later that night, I found a dead man with a satchel.
I waited a full hour before approaching.
I watched from behind a wall to make sure no one else was around. I threw a rock at his body to see if he moved.
He didn't.
When I finally got close, I pried the satchel from his stiff fingers. It had a gourd of water, stale tamales, and a strip of dried squash.
I wept when I bit into the tamale.
I didn't even taste it. I just cried.
But even that moment didn't last.
Because an hour later, I heard another survivor. He saw me eating.
And he came for me.
He looked like a merchant. Middle-aged. Missing a sandal. One eye swollen shut.
"Give me that."
I didn't answer. I just stood.
He pulled a knife.
"I said give me the food, boy. Or I'll gut you."
I took a step back. He took two forward.
Then—before I could think—I threw the gourd at his face and ran.
He chased me down an alley, but I was faster. Younger. I ducked through rubble and slid between walls too narrow for him. Eventually, he gave up. Cursed me. Spat.
But he got my food.
That night, I found a corner beneath a collapsed schoolhouse.
The chalkboard was shattered. A few broken reed mats still lay on the floor. There were stains where children had once sat.
I curled into the corner, shaking again.
I thought about the girl and the boy.
The ones I tried to help.
I thought about the girl who bit me.
The one who looked at me like a monster.
I thought about how badly I wanted to tell them I was different.
That I wasn't like the others.
But what did that mean?
"Others"?
The truth was, I didn't know who I was anymore.
Not Ehecatl.
Not the boy from California.
Just… something in between.
Lost. Weak. Useless.
A failure in both lives.
I didn't dream that night.
And maybe that was the most merciful thing of all.