Sakurai lifted the bushel of rice, grunting under the weight. He steadied the heavy basket with one hand, wincing a little as the coarse weaving scratched the bare skin on his shoulder. The humid heat of summer made even the use of a light kosode unbearable and he trudged towards the house in nothing but the loincloth-like fundoshi wrapped around his waist. He called for his friend again, scanning the field for any sign of him. “Kiyoshi!” Of course, there was no reply. Kiyoshi rarely ever raised his voice, not even as a child. Sakurai sighed as he came up to the flat open area behind the one room house they shared. As with the rest of their small village, the harsh times of the past few years had taken its toll on the wooden structure. Heavy rains and harsh winters beat at the old house each year so the holes in the thatched roof were many and the walls groaned like an old man in pain whenever leaned on too roughly. He dropped the bushel of rice next to the side of the house and mopped his sweat-covered brow.
