Close to Death
Heather panted, sweat prominent on her brow. Nausea clung to her stomach as she crawled to the fountain of youth. Her boots were high-tops, and left dragging trails in the salty marsh.
Spoonbills rested here, a plethora of pink birds arranged around a watery nest. You weren't supposed to feed them, but Heather had no choice. She was dying, and the dead should be allowed to break laws. Tracing a triangle in the wet dirt, she brought out tubers and bulbs from her pocket.
The birds retreated, started to eat. Heather crawled to the fountain, and drank.