Six years passed after Lucius left, and the little boy who had waved goodbye to him grew into someone I sometimes struggled to recognize.
Derek was seven now, almost eight, with long legs. He resembles Deucalion so much that he brings back memories of the past. He had a confidence that seemed to grow each time he learned something new. Most mornings, he was out of the house before I finished preparing breakfast, racing toward the settlement square to meet the other children.
“Mama, I’m going!” he called one morning, already halfway through the doorway.
“Have you eaten?”
“I’ll eat when I come back.”
“That is not what I asked.”
He stopped, gave me a look that was far too much like his father’s, then came back for the piece of bread I held out.
“You’re always asking questions,” he mutt
