“Me do have a story,” Rachel said. “Not a happy one. Me want to tell you about Micah. Everything me know.” She started at the beginning, with the little boy who laughed like a braying donkey. Those were her own words, and they hurt. There were times when she faltered, but she made herself continue. When she spoke of the day she came home from the fields to find the other children from the third gang at her door, their little faces grave, waiting to tell her that Micah was gone, there were tears in her eyes.
