Safety

You are nine, have taken a long way home, and by now, your mother is frantic. The ache in your bruised bones tells you so.

Because it looks like rain, you have two choices, duck into the house beside the trail or arrive home sopping wet. Either option will prove dreadful. Seeking shelter equals increased tardiness; coming home in soggy clothes guarantees a hailstorm of anger. Both promise a beating.

So, you choose shelter. You are two feet away. The door glides open. A wood fire, the scent of rabbit stew, and a waxen-winged woman greet you. She smiles. “Welcome home.”