The Giver Chapter 15

"Water," the voice said in a parched, croaking whisper.

A wild-eyed horse, its bridle torn and dangling, trotted frantically through the mounds of men, tossing its head, whinnying in panic.

He lay sprawled, his gray uniform glistening with wet, fresh blood.

Overwhelmed by pain, he lay there in the fearsome stench for hours, listened to the men and animals die, and learned what warfare meant.

The colors of the carnage were grotesquely bright: the crimson wetness on the rough and dusty fabric, the ripped shreds of grass, startlingly green, in the boy's yellow hair.

It stumbled, finally, then fell, and did not rise.

Water trickled into the imploring mouth and down the grimy chin.

"Water," the voice said in a parched, croaking whisper.

Around him, everywhere, far across the expanse of what seemed to be a field, lay groaning men.

"Put your hands on me," he directed, aware that in such anguish The Giver might need reminding.

He was in a confused, noisy, foul-smelling place.

"Water," the voice said in a parched, croaking whisper.

A dull blankness slid slowly across his eyes.

Slowly he reached to his side, felt the metal container there, and removed its cap, stopping the small motion of his hand now and then to wait for the surging pain to ease.