He carried straw and feed for Dalia’s goats. The walk took them away from the hustle of the ever-expanding camp towards the village of Haran. When they reached the temporary pens, the boy removed the soiled bedding and replaced it with fresh straw. He laid the feed unopened at Dalia’s feet and began the short trip back to the camp. Dalia’s animals were her quiet solace in an otherwise busy day and she normally fed them alone. Dalia watched the boy recede into the hubbub of the camp. He had attached himself to her. His mother was one of the first Healed to arrive at the farm and she now worked as the lead architect managing the needs of the growing camp population. Her son, when he was not at the camp school, ran Dalia’s errands and to her delight generally got under her feet. Dalia tended her flock with care. She had known most of the animals since birth and it pained her to see that so many were missing. Dalia ran her fingers along the back of the nearest goat. The hair was coarse and singed in places from the destruction that had rained down on her life, a life which was slowly being pieced together with the love and support of strangers.
