“I’m going to bring her back.”
Deka’s father looked up from his now-cold bowl of soup. It was the first time in over a moon that his father had truly looked at him. And Deka observed his father. His father’s face was striped by the tracks of dried tears. His eyes shot with blood from night after sleepless night.
His father’s gaze left his face and noted the pack over Deka’s shoulder, the waterskin by Deka’s hip, the hardy boots made for travel over rock and gravel, not the soft grass and dirt of their gentle homeland.
“Where are you going?” his father asked.