   Zecora looked down at the thin, sad form lying on her cot and a stream of emotions flowed through her in short order: pity for poor Macintosh over what he had been reduced to, anger at having him taken from her, fear as she watched him die after trying desperately to save his life and a combination of sadness and self-loathing for having failed him. These feeling were intermingled with a cold wind — a wind that cut like a razor in passing. Her stomach twisted; she almost felt nauseous. He had gone through all this for nothing.