By Cory Steven Brown
The smell of smoked meat forced a growl from my hollow stomach. It had been over a week since we ran out of food.
“Jerky?” Dad asked from his wheelchair, holding up a shriveled piece.
I ran my tongue over it, savoring the salt, softening it before I chewed until my jaw was sore.
“Remember how to make it?” Tears filled his eyes.
I nodded, sniffling, looking down at his amputated legs.
He handed me his knife and motioned to his heart.
“I can’t,” I cried.
He thrust my hand and gasped.
“Survive, my son,” he breathed. “My body, for you.”
It’s what parents do. Good job!