Amara kissed her forehead, lifted the basket onto her head, and stepped into the cool morning air.
The village was waking up. Smoke rose from cooking fires. Children rubbed their eyes. A few women swept the earth outside their homes. Amara walked barefoot along the familiar path, every stone pressing into her feet, until she reached the roadside where her stall stood: a simple wooden plank laid across two stones.
She arranged the bananas carefully.
“Fresh bananas,” she called. “Sweet bananas.”
No one answered.
Continue on the next page:
