From the Bookshelf of What's the Name of That Book???…

The bus pulled away along the village road, and the parents' long shadows shrunk behind the condensation-covered windows.

And there you have it.
The children were on their way.
They would never return.

The bus pulled away along the village road, and the parents' long shadows shrunk behind the condensation-covered windows.

And there you have it.
The children were on their way.
They would never return.

Somewhere, far away, Yasmine and Emma were sobbing, too, as were Nathan, and Océane, and Louis, and in the dark forest, in the little perimeter that represented one one-hundredth of the entire wooded area, if you cocked an ear, you could hear a tearful symphony of ‘Mommy!’ rise above the treetops, whether spoken or simply thought so hard that it had resonated in the sap-filled hearts of the broad, deciduous trees and the towering evergreens. The cries of the children calling for their mothers had filled the space and made everything tremble, tremors that reached the most obtuse of sensibilities, moving anyone who could detect the vibration, that is, anyone other than you, dear reader, who have the privilege and the curse of grasping the unbearable birds-eye view of a forest, plunged into the darkness of one inconsequential night, from which rise the cries for help of children left to their own devices, and children who have died, or who will die, and whose salvation you can do nothing for. That is your lot, and that is theirs, tragic roles that each will have to play as best they can, until the last page.