For the first time, the woman looked up. Her eyes were cloudy with cataracts, but her voice, when it came, was low and educated, almost musical.
“Harold,” she murmured to the man, “tell the truth.”
The old man shut his eyes for a second.
“We walked too far,” he said. “And my wife’s feet won’t make another mile.”
Claire looked down. Their shoes were caked in red dust. The woman’s ankles were swollen. A canvas bag sat between them, slumped and nearly empty.