I winced as the blue plastic cup pressed onto the cracked broken skin.

A few drops of water bouncing off my fissured lips and then a thin stream pouring into my dry mouth.

It tasted of nothing.

Swallowing it was laborious and painful but my mouth began to rehydrate, dry chamois like membranes softening.

I moved my jaw, and my gums and the inside of my cheeks stretched and became pliant.

I drank back more. It leached in and around the crevices and the hidden recesses relieving pain and bringing comfort.

It tasted of nothing at first.

But I could taste myself. Blood and iron. Stale dried meat.

A taste, not of death but coming back to life.

The water had no taste but it tasted of hope.

A potential to persevere.

It tasted of charity. Of kindness.

A rescue from desperation.

It tasted of nothing

It tasted of salvation.