Anyone;

[garbage]

Alive? he might be dead for aught I know, With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain, And eyes squeezed shut ‘neath rusty mane; He only notices the swell of her stomach when she faces him head on. He feels a pang, a kind of distant sadness for the child, which will be born into a strange and sick world. He doesn’t know the effect of the disease on children, assumes it’s nothing good. She responds to his questions with frivolous niceties, tone dry enough that even he notices it. He wonders what her reasoning is, for being out here, if she shares the same ideations he does – not any kind of bravery, but a sort of apathy, a disinterest in health. “I’m glad,” he says, and maybe it’s his attempt at a joke, his response to her statement of livelihood. He even smiles, a little, though it takes him a moment to curve his lips in the right way. “I…well, what’s the saying? ‘I have no fear of death after what life has shown me.’ The idea of infection doesn’t give me much pause.” Stupid, perhaps, to make it so obvious, how little he values his own life. But he is often so stupid. “What about you?” Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe; I never saw a brute I hated so; He must be wicked to deserve such pain.