Miranda
The walk to house thirty-seven felt unreal. Around us, families moved slowly through the settlement with the same guarded bewilderment I felt pressing against my ribs. Some people whispered. Others cried quietly. A few men glared at every guard we passed, but none of them made a move. Maybe because they were outnumbered. Maybe because they were exhausted.
Maybe because the sight of chickens and fruit trees had confused everyone into silence.
Jake’s head turned constantly as we walked.
“Mom, do we live here now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can we see the cows?”
“Later.”
“Can I fish in the pond?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do we have fishing poles?”
“I don’t know, Jake.”
He accepted that answer with the temporary patience of a four-year-old, which meant I probably had less than a minute befo
