I touch his mouth with a fingertip, tracing the shape of his lips. “I wish I could bring you home with me. I would dress you in simple clothes, a field worker’s garb, and we would run barefoot through the potsava fields. I would show you a volcano with a fire that rivals your own. We live on the edge of danger, you see. My village is under constant threat from that mountain, but even if it destroyed us, we would not blame or hate it, because it has given us such a good life.” I’m not sure why there are tears in my eyes, but his are wet, too. “That sounds perfect,” he whispers. “And you love
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