PREVIEW
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A murmur in the tent where the boy slept beside the radio that hadn’t spoken in days.
Carmen stood alone near the water trough, her sleeves rolled to the elbows, her wrists scarred with quiet burns from kitchen fires and first-aid kits.
The sound of goat bells floated in the valley air.
She watched the path.
She didn’t know why.
Her hands were wet and cracked and she’d spent the morning boiling roots to make something like broth for the evening meal, ...
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