Not one smiled.
The oldest, a boy on the edge of manhood with his father’s shoulders and his mother’s grief still sitting raw in his face, stood in front like a guard. Beside him was a girl of fourteen or fifteen holding the hand of a smaller child. Behind them, more eyes. More silence. More suspicion than I had strength for.
Bo pushed aside the hanging quilt that served as a door and said, with no ceremony at all, “This is Sarah. She’ll be staying with us.”
Staying.
Not serving.
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