A bunch of crows flock around you, settling on the ground in front of you, on your shoulder, one nestling in your hair. They probably think you're dead or hope it, lying on your side on cold, dusty stone like this. They probably don't care, hopping warily towards the bread held loosely by your face, pecking at it and backing off in the same motion. There's a flutter of wings when you move, but none of the birds take flight; instead, they crowd close when all you do is tear the bread into smaller pieces, one in your mouth for every ten you scatter before you. The bread is soft and sweet, but it doesn't take the heaviness out of your body, nor the way your eyes keep wanting to close.

"...Good job today," you mumble as the crows peck at the bread again, having eaten all the crumbs. It saves you the trouble of having to tear it apart, so you let them have at it.

"I wonder if you can tell..." The bread falls from your hand in a flurry of flapping wings, and you watch your fingers tremble, letting out a breath and your eyes slide shut. "...Never mind."