A heavy hand. Too heavy to be momma’s as it hoists me roughly towards the sky. Another bolt of lightning silences my screaming as the shaft strikes a tree nearby. A dozen pairs of glowing eyes turn to twisted silhouettes in the blinding white light, only to disappear an instant later. The last thing I recall is that heavy hand releasing my tunic.

I awake at dawn cold and soaking wet, heaped over a bare shrub. The rain has stopped, leaving a thick fog. My ears are ringing but when I call for help all I hear is cottony silence, my voice distant.

Through the mist I see the skins nearby. My head is aching terribly, my tongue dry. I stand and wait for my vision to clear, it doubles as my ears chime. Momma didn’t come for me.

Taking a drink, I remember last night and Tabitha’s baby. They need water.

Clutching the skins, disoriented, I call again to the silence. Nothing. I pull my sopping coat closed and begin to run, my ankle aching, feeling cold swollen with every muddy step. They came for me.