The one trailing behind was long dead but somehow still moving. This did not frighten her. She’d seen far worse things in her life. When the woman’s head swung to the side a bit, the crone glimpsed the mangled flesh of her face. She had once been pretty. The crone smirked. “The time has come,” she said in a dusty whisper. She looked around, startled by the sound of her own voice. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d spoken aloud. The living woman carried a dog that looked nearly dead. Some food, water, and rest would be enough to help that creature. They approached her house, then hesitated, argued. The crone remembered her baby, so long ago. Was the living girl her baby? No. She wasn’t old enough. Nowhere near as old as her baby would be. And she looked nothing like the father anyway. As she closed her eyes, that day flashed into her mind, the day they’d ripped her baby from her belly, the day they took the child and left her on the cold, stone slab, alone, crying for her infant as their surgeon sewed her closed again.
