The barking of the pittbulls around me grew louder. But I could not hear them. I only held my son as close as possible, his faint screams almost silent to me--the little mouth open and working for air.

"If you two don't shut up!" the woman yelled. Her voice was a lot deeper than I had anticipated; her tall but slim frame did not match with it. With a grunt, she put her weapon away. "Shut up!"

Both animal whimpered in unison, their tails swinging back and forth. Their eyes never left my own--but they remained still. She glanced quickly over her shoulder, cursing over her breath, before stepping over towards me. A chill ran down my spine, but it quickly disintegrated as she began to fumble and undo her jacket, draping it around my shoulders. I didn't even realize I was shivering. Her eyes were full of questions---but she did not utter a single one, at least not yet. As she knelt down beside me, another fiery blast echoed in the distance, making us both flinch and look up.

"Give 'im to me," she said with such authority that I found myself doing so before I knew it. I wondered if she had many children of her own herself. With her small, but powerful arms she gently scooped up my wailing boy. As he began to quiet down, she held her other hand towards me.

"Come. Quickly. We don’t have all day.”

I remained in a squatting position, still clutching onto the stick like an idiot.

The woman glanced at the silent pit bulls, who had their tounges wagging, saliva dripping from their open jaws. The brown one sat down and began to lick their paws.

"Put that thing down, will ya? Honey is going to think you're playing a game, and I don't want her running out here. Don't you worry Pepper either--they're a bunch of grumpy old mutts. They won't do a thing to you; they couldn't even scare away the old mailman that used to come by my place. Can you walk?"

I graciously nodded and dropped my stick to the ground---I attempted to try to sign a word to her, but she had already grabbed my hand and was walking so fast she was yanking me along. The pain between my legs was unbearable----blood was escaping past my thighs. The dogs walked beside us; the brown one's nose was wet against my ankle. As we came across a ditch another blast shook the earth around us, and once again, we had to take cover as the sound of gunfire echoed across the cold air.

”It’s alright, missy.”

The woman's face was streaked with dirt and grass, but her eyes were calm, waiting. After a moment of waiting, she abruptly grabbed my wrist again and pulled me forward. My instincts told me to run due to the lack of the scar on her face, but I so badly wanted to lie down that I hardly cared where she was taking me. We were deeper in the trees now--a few had been burning, but most had their leaves intact. Every few miles it was the same thing---stop and wait, stop and wait. Once we passed a ditch and a small shelter made of sticks and leaves came into view did she finally let go of my hand. She was out of breath---and as I gestured for my son, she gave me to him.

To my surprise, he was fast asleep—I guess he did take quite well to strangers.

"Please, do you have any water?"I weakly signed with my fingers, feeling my face burn up. "Please, some water."

It took her a little while to understand, but she retreated into the trees and came back with a canteen filled to the brim. I gulped it down so quickly I nearly choked, but its coldness against my throat made the dizziness go away. As another wave of exhaustion came over me, the woman knelt down and placed her hands on my shoulders. My eyes were droopy. Both dogs lazily laid down in the shade.

"Hey," she ordered. "Stay with me now. There’s a couple things I need to know from you, missy.”

I nodded.

"You coming from up north? That's where I see most of 'em." She studied my bloodied, ragged clothes. "Hardly alive, though. You from up north?"

I shook my head.

The woman frowned and raised my blistered bare feet onto her lap. I winced in pain and tried to reach out, but she slapped my hand away and began to massage them.

“Don’t you fight me,” she scolded. “Don’t tell me you’ve been walking on these this whole time. No wonder your legs gave out on ya. Now listen. I’m going to get a basin and let these hooves soak for a little while. Get a little circulation in them. I don’t like people who babble too much about things anyway. You real good at listening.”

I stared at her, before slumping down against the ground. Despite the stubbornness in her eyes, kindness was buried underneath them.

"You better get away from these parts. Don't you have any common sense, wandering out here?" The woman sighed, rubbing my left foot. A fly landed on top of her head. "This is no place for you and a newborn. What you doing out here? Where are your folks?"

Not waiting for an answer, she helped me stand up and walk towards her shelter. I didn't even wait for her to tell me to lie down on her bed---a soft patch of moss, grass, hay. I would tell her I was going to find my husband---to get back to our home in Selva. But this strange woman's face was calm--not surprised. She gently adjusted my sleeping boy's head just right against my chest, his heartbeat soft against mine. His hands were so incredibly tiny, and I placed a soft kiss on his damp head. I drew down my dress to expose one of my breasts—-tender and full of milk. The sensation of a blanket placed beneath us made me slowly slip away. My eyelids grew heavy.

"When he wakes up," her voice seemed further away, "he'll be fed. And maybe you can tell me a little more, once you are ready to."

I think she said more. But she disappeared, just like everything else did in front of me.

* * * * * * * *

The sound of grunting and wheezing filled the air.

I blinked and looked around me, trying to understand how I had arrived at this place. I was in a wheat field—it was hot and sunny. The sky was very clear, not a cloud in the sky. The stalks swayed in rhythm with the wind, and I focused on the shack that remained in front of me. It was a lot cleaner, with much more room. Chickens clucked and pecked at the dirt ground below, while hungry hogs buried their noses in the wooden feeding troughs.

Under a mango tree, laid a small, unmarked grave, next to some of its bruised, brown fruit, its smashed acres a breeding ground for birds and tiny white maggots.

When I moved, I somehow felt lighter against the broken and split stalks of wheat. Many had been layered and placed against each other, bundled and tied tightly together with a thin piece of straw. A figure bent over, drenched in sweat and filthy—barefooted with bits of straw stuck in their pale hair. His small muscles yanked at the stubborn plants with a certain kind of speed. When they finally stood upright, I could see it was a young man; a boy, really. He couldn't have been older than fifteen or sixteen years old.

Dark circles were under his eyes. He hoisted up a slop bucket and dumped its contents into one of the hogs’ feeding trough after stepping through the pen, ignoring the squealing and pushing of the beasts.

The boy wiped his forehead with the back of his muddy hand, squinting in the heat. His large blue eyes scanned the vast fields as he set his bucket down to the ground with a thump. A shadow appeared on the ground near the entrance of the shack—an older man, gripping a cane. He wore a ragged straw hat, and there were more wrinkles on his skin than I could really count. He scratched his beard, peering down at the field.

"Michel," he hoarsely yelled. "Quit standing around. You've done enough. Don't keep Martha waiting---she has supper ready. You better come before it gets cold."

The boy didn't even look in his direction. He kept his head low; a shadow was cast over his eyes.

"I know you hear me." The old man took a few steps forward, chewing on a piece of tobacco. "Come inside before the sun gets to ya. Sit and rest a spell, lest this heat kills us both.”

"I'll b-be….there s-soon." The words came out so quietly that I could barely make them out from Michel's mouth. "I-I will." He moved forward through the tangled wheat plants, gently pushing them aside. His bare feet left prints in the mud, leading the way up towards the mango tree. He cleared away the rotten fruit lying on the ground--took out a straw broom leaning against the tree trunk and began to sweep away all of the dead leaves.

He had developed a bad stutter.

I watched as Michel slowly sat down in front of the grave. He had some sort of purple flower in his hand, placed it directly on top of the stack of rocks that rested upon a neat pile. He wouldn't say a word. Just sat for hours and hours, a forlorn look in his blue eyes, until the old man had finally reached the edge of the field and convinced him to finally come inside. And every day, he would leave a different kind of flower on the grave.

My body somehow slipped through the wooden walls of the shack—its roof had begun to sag and fall apart with a few shingles missing. Gone was the junky, disarrayed of the place I had seen, piled with books and furniture and all sort of items. Now it was nearly bare---cobwebs dangled from the corners, and dust rested on the cracked windowsill. It dawned to me that most of the items had likely been sold. A small tea kettle hung over a fireplace, where a cracked table set for three sat in the middle of the one room home. Three small sleeping pallets with neatly folded blankets were placed opposite sides of the room. A mouse crept across the floor.

The boy rarely came into the shack, only for meals. He spent most nights outside, leaving his bed untouched. The sight of the structure alone seemed to unnerve him, and he listlessly became swallowed up into the fields from morning to sundown—-often awake before the old man was. He was a child who worked harder than most adults, and the sight deeply disturbed me. But a single evening did not pass by without him sitting in front of the grave, sometimes talking to it so quietly I could barely hear him, others him being silent with the sound of crickets whirring in the dark night air.

Michel and the old man were loading some wheat bales up onto a wagon with a small donkey hitched in front of it as the woman sliced vegetables--cutting off the mold that had grown on them--before dumping them into a pot of boiling water. I saw them on the road. The old man told him it was about time he started getting an education.

"I saved up a few rupees," he mentioned as they sat around the table, quietly sipping on lukewarm soup. " 'Bout time you got enrolled." With his wrinkled hands, he placed a few small coins on the surface of the table. "This should last for the spring semester. Use this to buy whatever them books teachers want you get. Don't burden yourself. I can figure out how to pay for next year.”

Michel fiddled with the spoon in his hand.

I sat down on a stool in the corner.

Martha smiled and folded her arms. "Ain't that wonderful, honey? In a few months, you'll be reading better than all of us. And writing and knowing your numbers. I hear they paying educated folk real good up in the city. You’ll meet all sorts of people your own age. This is a wonderful, wonderful opportunity.”

"Make that a couple of weeks," the old man chuckled. “You’ll be able to read the newspaper to me soon.”

"But...won't you need my help in the fields?" Michel asked. "It’s….as hard as is for t-t-he both of you. Y-you need that to buy more crops." Gently, he slid the money back towards the old man. "I can’t take this from you. I can get a job. L-let me h-help you. I…can do better.”

"You ain't cut out for the farm life, boy," the old man said. His smile faded, his tone became more serious. "I don’t want to subject you to a life of back breaking work for only a few rupees a day. I want something better for you than what I’ve got. And you too young and scrawny for a job—ain't nobody going to hire you. You go on to school in the mornings and the daytime. Then you come and help me if I need it.”

“I can try to look f-for a…” the boy whispered. “A job.”

Martha gasped.

The old man’s face grew pale. “What?”

“I…” Michel timidly said. “I think—”

The old man crumpled his napkin and threw it across the table. “I think you can find a better way to show your appreciation. I had hoped you would show a little more enthusiasm. The tuition alone cost me an arm and a leg, and this is how you express your thanks?” He released a low whistle. “I swear, this new generation is becoming more selfish, more entitled. So you think you’re grown? You’re a man now.”

“No, no, no—I….I really am grate—“

”Robert, please,” Martha hissed. “Enough.”

The old man pointed a knobby finger at Michel. “You are going to that school. I don’t want to hear any more excuses. None.”

“But…I…” the boy stumbled over his words. “I-I….can h-help y-you much more in the fields.”

”You’ll be doing no such thing,” the old man barked. “This place offers a free lunch there every day. That’s one less meal you have to work for. You’ll get two in a day—something hot and good to fill up your stomach. I’ve already spoken with the dean. You’re going. And you’’ll do what I say. Is that clear?”

Michel slowly nodded. “Y-yes s-sir.”

Martha stirred her spoon into the thin soup and coughed.

When the old man stood up, his chair made a squeaking noise against the ground. He loudly slurped what remained of the soup from his bowl, put his hat on his head, and walked off into the fields. Martha finished her meal and gave the boy a quiet smile, before rising and heading to the pig pen.

Michel remained at the table for a long time after they both were gone, his bowl full of soup. His eyes were a bit wet, focused on the coins that glittered like stones on the surface. That night, he did not sleep in his bed, but fell asleep directly next to the grave under the mango tree, amongst the rotting fruit and plants.

The schoolhouse appeared in front of me in a run down part of a graffitied city under a weeping sky and puddles of mud in the ground. It was raining, and the buildings appeared to be collapsed and in a similar shape and dwelling.

As the boy stood in front of the steps, shivering, I saw that he was drenched and his pants and shirt, one of the few articles of clothing he owned and that had been carefully stitched and pressed by Martha, were soaked. As he finally made his way up towards the door, he hesitated for a moment, before opening it and stepping his way in.

I followed behind him, taking in my surroundings. The hallway floor seemed to be made out of marble, and, after encountering a faculty member in a stuffy office that was stacked to the brim with papers, she frowned, read out his first and last name on a piece of paper, and told him to go to a room number. The look of confusion on Michel's face seemed to only agitate her further, so they brought him to another room. Asked him more questions that he seemed unable to answer.

Finally, one of the faculty members, perhaps the principle of the school, made him sit down and gave him a series of tests based on different grade levels. They handed him a pencil and watched him helplessly stare at the paper, before at last, one of led the bewildered boy down to a small, colorful classroom full of much younger children; mostly seven or eight years old.

All eyes fell on Michel as he quietly stepped inside the room, his muddy bare feet leaving prints on the wooden floor. Some classmates wrinkled their noses at him, others whispered and pointed, but I noticed he didn't even look at anyone in the eye. Just held his head low—his dirty hands were shaking. The principle pulled the shocked teacher aside, who had been writing on the chalkboard, quickly hissed some things in her ear, before escaping through the front door and shutting it.

The woman gave a warm smile. "Michel, yes?"

He shyly looked up, then gave a slight nod.

"Welcome to my class. My name is Ms. Carter. Why don't you have a seat over there? We were just going over our reading lesson." There was a rise of laughter in the room, in which she impatiently clapped her hands. "Settle down." With her left arm, she beckoned at him. "Go ahead."

As Michel slumped into an empty chair and rested his arms on the desk, he tried to make sense of the words scrawled on the board. Soon, most students began passing around a worn book to each other, taking turns reading each sentence. The little girl who handed it to him clamped a hand over her nose and rushed back to her desk. I could see the panic building up in his eyes--- with everyone looking at him in the room, heads turned in his direction.

My gaze fell on the illustrated page he was staring at, next to a colorful image of a bright red fox leaping over a grassy field. The corners were yellowed with age and curled up over each other, and Michel placed his dirty index finger under the first printed word, his mouth open, almost like he was trying to sound it out. Ms. Carter gave him an encouraging smile, nodding her head with so much enthusiasm I was surprised it didn't fly off.

"T...t..." It came out as a whisper.

As the whole class erupted in laughter, the teacher rapidly knocked her ruler against her desk to quiet everyone down. A dark shade of red fell upon Michel's face, and he immediately got up and stumbled down the hallway, past a few startled students, out until there was fresh air and rain that matched with the water already forming in his eyes. He sat behind a cluster of bushes and hid until the first bell rang, hugging his knees.

* * * * * *

Evander’s soft cries made me sit up. It didn't take me long to figure out the reason, and, after wandering outside for a moment, I found a small stream and gently removed the swaddling cloth from his body. He freely kicked his little arms and legs into the air, and, being as careful as I could, gently gave him his first bath, making sure to clean up all of the crust and residue on his skin. He seemed delighted by the bubbles that splashed on the surface.

Once he was fresh and clean, I dried him off good and wrapped him against in some dry material, until he was warm. He looked up at me and lazily yawned, making a smile form on my face. His hand grabbed onto my pinky. For only being a day old, he was such a well behaved child—an easy baby to be around. He had his father's patience---and the thought made my throat lumpy.

I blindly groped around in the dark, finding a cough settling in my arms. It was a nasty one, and took over my lungs until I found the woman pounding my back amongst my muffled gasps. A look of relief fell on her face once she saw me.

"You should not do that," she exclaimed. "Sit, sit. I made you some tea."

I wiped my mouth with my sleeve, wincing at the burning sensation in my throat.

She was kneeling by the bed and placed a candle on the ground, before pressing a cracked turtle shell into my hands. The light illuminated her pale face. Her eyes were puffy, and she spoke in a low, quiet voice as if not to disturb my son, who was caught in deep sleep. Gently, she picked him up and rocked him in her arms for a moment, before handing me to him again. The dogs were outside, sniffing the ground.

"Somone's followed us," the woman whispered, reaching for her gun. "I know someone's here."

"What do you mean?" I tried to spell in her hand, but she reloaded a magazine in her rifle, her fingers shaking as she pushed it in with a click.

"I saw footprints in the ground that didn't belong to ours," she continued. "I swear someone's out there."

I cursed these stupid dreams I kept having--they were weakening my joints. And although my body was begging me to lay down for a moment, I knew I owed this woman nothing but my life. I could not bear to see the terror in her eyes anymore. Beads of sweat poured down my forehead----but I reached for her shaky hand and spelled out,

"Let me help you."

She stared at me as if I had gone mad.

"I want to make sure you get home," I signed, before turning my head away to cough. "Maybe you can come with me to Selva. My husband is there. He knows what to do---he can help you."

"My home is up north," the woman said. "And that is no place for you. With all these water resources being taken up, that is where I must be." Her eyes widened. "You must hide. I'll help you and your child find a place. Suddenly she reached out towards me. "I....I cannot have you remain with me. I saw someone....I.....you must hide."

"Who?" I asked. "Tell me."

Her face grew so pale it concerned me.

"You must hide,” she hissed. “Now."