And then, on the fourth of June, she finally got one. She was wearily searching the eyes of the incoming refugees when someone said her name in a voice she recognized, but only barely. Her heart skipped, and when she turned, she was staring into the face of a man who couldn’t have weighed more than fifty kilos. His cheeks looked sunken and carved out of bone; his hair had gone gray, and his beard was patchy. But she recognized him instantly. “Tatuś?” she whispered, too afraid to touch him for fear that he was an illusion, that he would dissipate before her eyes. “Is it really you, słoneczko?”
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THANK YOU GOD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
