She tells him no. “I carry this myself.” He does not push her. He cannot read her quite yet. He can only smell the fear on her. To him, it’s the scent of a hunted animal. She is restless and suspicious. Her expression does not soften as they walk up the narrow streets toward his house. She focuses her eyes ahead and does not stop once to gaze at the unspoiled beauty of the village or the sea below. He alternates from walking in front of her to moments of lagging behind. Sometimes he feels the betrayal of his own body. The swell of his stomach, the shortness of his legs, the foot injury that kept him out of this war. She is steps ahead of him, and he notices the strength of her body. The ribbon of muscle in her calves, the tightness in her hips. The firmness of her arms. “We’re almost there,” he tells her. She looks back at him and stares. He has seen that look—the vulnerable wanting to appear strong—countless times over the past year.
