Her father, she knew, would nod in agreement, his face clear of all emotion. She let go of the ladder and fell maybe a foot or two, landing on her feet and sitting against a dirt wall, still listening.

“Who? Who’s Anara? I don’t know a child—or anyone—by that name.” That was her father. He’d finally spoke up. His once strong voice was now weakened, like that of an old man’s. Anara shook her head. She’d dreamed this. She knew what came next.

A gasp, a gunshot, silence, she thought, going over the dream in her head for the umpteenth time. But no gasp. No gunshot. Quite the noise echoed overhead.

“We know she’s here, don’t lie!”

“Who?”

“You know WHO !”

“No, I don’t.” She guessed her mother had left, she no longer heard shaking sobs, only her father’s voice went through the room. And the soldier. His harsh voice stung her ears like a bee. Only then did she recognize the voice.

Jeremiah.