It was getting darker earlier. The sun was growing tired of our antics, it seemed. He was always so eager to leave us. The moon wasn’t much better – sure, on her full nights, she made sure to arrive on time and allow us all to bask in her glory, but the moment she began to wane, she became shy. She was always so insecure about her size.

Tonight was not one of her full nights. It would be dark. I glanced at my watch – it was nearly four. Two years ago, I might’ve had sunlight until five. But now our days – and, by extension, our productivity – was lessened. It wasn’t like it was that hard to work by candle-light, but I still preferred to keep my dark hours as a time of resting. Luminescent light was, of course, out of the question. The sun felt every bulb of artificial light like a slap across the face – a declaration that we no longer needed him. We think that, maybe, this is why he started to leave us earlier. His insecurities were worse than the moon’s.

But at least we had the stars.

As the sun and moon’s absences grew longer, the brilliance of the stars grew too.

I hefted the last box into the back of the van and dusted off my hands. My supervisor started awake as approached him where he slept on the curbside. He noted the position of the sun in the sky and groaned, rubbing at his face with both hands.

“Get out of here, Vance. Same time Thursday.” He waved me off, closing his eyes again. I stayed. After a long moment, he heaved a sigh, fishing around his pockets. “God – here.” He tossed an envelope at me. It felt too light when I caught it. I elected to be grateful, nonetheless.

“Don’t work too hard,” I said in parting, stuffing my paycheck in my shirt. The walk home from the warehouse where I worked wasn’t too bad. I actually liked the distance – if I timed it just right, I could make it through my apartment door at the precise moment that the stars came out. Their light would shine through the bars on my windows, guide me to my room, and keep me safe as I slept.

Right on schedule, I arrived at my door. I fingered the outline of the envelope under my shirt, held back a sigh. I could afford food, I reasoned with myself. It was definitely enough for food…if I ration it correctly. If it’s not – I can always start working nights. I should be grateful. So many people have it worse.

I reflected on my luck, electing to pause at the barred door to my small apartment, glancing at the sky as the bruised twilight gave way to the soul-consuming darkness. Then I waited for the stars to come out.

I took a step back to better view the transition, stumbling as my feet encountered a shadowing mass of something on the ground. I caught myself just before I fell on it.

I had never seen so much blood. It almost didn’t register in the darkness that that’s what it was – blood – and it didn’t help that it was surrounding a mass of black fabric. It was a man, I realized in a burst, not yet a corpse. I had briefly felt the warmth that had not yet left his body. How long he would remain that way, I had no idea – there was so much blood.

I knelt beside him, dazed, trying to remember which of my neighbors were trustworthy, which of them knew any first aid – and suddenly there was a weak, but determined grip on my hair, yanking my head down.

“Be on your way,” The man hissed. “I’m fine. Mind your own business.”

As he said this, his hand twitched free from my hair and his arm dropped beside him. He let out a pained groan. I made a decision in that moment.

“Please, don’t die on me,” I asked politely, assessing the damage I could see before carefully scooping him into my arms. “I have a reputation of the only non-murderer in this area, and I’d like to keep it that way, please.”

The noise he made in protest died off into another groan, and then he went very quiet. It was challenging getting my apartment unlocked with my arms full, but I managed. I stumbled through my narrow halls to my tiny living room-slash-bedroom, and considered setting him on the deteriorating sofa. I decided against that, lifting a leg so that I could hook a foot around the handle to lower my fold-up bed from the wall.

I set him on my bed as gingerly as I could - on his back because I still had no idea where all he was wounded – and set off towards my kitchen to find something to clean his wounds.

“Don’t…” He wheezed.

“Stay still,” I instructed, turning and promptly colliding nose-first with the door frame. I rubbed my face, frowning as I realized – it was really, really dark in my place. Had clouds rolled in since I discovered this stranger, obstructed the stars? I didn’t recall seeing any clouds before. I dismissed the thought.

I returned to the man’s side, arms full of candles, a first-aid kit, and a jug of water. I lit the candles, finally able to see at least part of the man. He was swaddled in what looked to be the remains of a long black coat, face hidden by an overlarge hood, arms tucked around himself in a tight hug. The left pant leg of his trousers had been cut away by something, and his bare calf was torn in a long, jagged cut. I sized it up, grimacing.

“Where else are you-“ I touched his arm to un-tuck it, and in response he whipped out at me, grabbing me by the hair again. He did nothing else but yank my hair, too weak for anything else. I saw the desperation of a wild animal in his eyes, now illuminated by candle-light. After seeing that, I noticed that his other arm was wrapped tightly around – a burlap sack, maybe? He thinks I’m trying to rob him, I realized.

“I’m treating your wounds,” I said soothingly.

“Sure you are,” He croaked.

“I won’t lay a hand on your stuff.”

“Like you’re some kind of good Samaritan.”

“I swear it.”

He scoffed. “What, on your mother’s grave?”

“Well – no. She’s alive. I’ll swear by the stars, though.”

Something in his face changed, and he released my hair. He also un-tucked his other arm, settling to let it dangle off the side of the bed, still firmly holding onto the burlap sack.

There was a scrape across his left bicep, bruising across his ribs, and – most horrifically – a deep, jagged laceration just below his navel. Tucking his arms wasn’t just to keep a hold of his bag – but to keep his organs where they belonged.

I grimaced – despite all the times I’d had to stitch myself up through my years, I’d never fully perfected my sutures. My unsteady hand worked to patch him up until the sun was once again gracing us with his presence.

I examined my handiwork, satisfied that he would live, given he lets himself heal. I glanced at his face – younger than I’d thought it would be, but heavily scarred, with bags under his eyes that almost looked like they had been drawn-on with charcoal.

He’d passed out halfway through the night – from the pain, or the blood loss – and honestly, I was impressed he’d maintained consciousness for that long. Pure determination, I supposed. I gave his wounds a last rinsing and situated him in a better position for sleeping.