He touched her cold lips, left tears on her eyelids, took the screaming child, and walked until the sky pinked and then purpled. The child screamed day after day. The fragmented moon, pale and large, bathed the world in reflected light. I wish I was the moon tonight, he said, Quiet and alone, bathed in starlight. The dying fire glowed. He placed wood on it and wrapped his coat tighter. The child cried, screamed, kicked. Watching him for a moment, the man picked him up and rocked. Go to sleep, he said, Tomorrow you’ll be home. The screams woke them before the pounding of the door. She told him to be careful and he sat very still staring at the door two meters away. The fire still burned and the moonlight came strong, the room softlit giving definition to the shadow’s edges. She took his hand and squeezed, and he told her it would be all right. She squeezed harder. They waited through the screams but no other sounds reached them. A child, she said. He nodded. She let go of his hand and rose, skins wrapped round her, the cold wood against her feet creaking with each step.
