I scoot nearer, the air winding around us as I do, and he looks down at me and I look up at him. Our breath coming heavier. He holds out his hand, knowing why I moved. Gently, I take his palm in mine and inspect the healed wounds. Thatcher has been through grief and war. His hands have carried the body of his brother and my badly beaten cousin, and if he could, I’m sure he’d carry more.
