One more time? For the audience?” he says. His voice isn’t angry. It’s hollow, which is worse. Already the boy with the bread is slipping away from me. I take his hand, holding on tightly, preparing for the cameras, and dreading the moment when I will finally have to let go.
Five days after black and red collide. The motion sickness past, I’ll be the first to stand. Behind that weathered door, I thought it would be safest. My head is dizzy now, I thought we’d overcome. We might not make it home tonight.