The reeds cut our bare feet running for the boats. There had been no time for shoes as we followed mother in our bedclothes. I was only ten years old, and my little brother was five. His small legs shuffled to keep up with mom pulling his little hand behind her after she extracted us from our hiding spots into a full run towards the river. In the distance, there were shouts and gunfire, fires being started. Hopefully, that would be enough distraction to allow us to get to the boats. Mother plopped each of us into the small row boat with her wild eyes darting around for threats, covering us with a coarse blanket smelling of hay and horse sweat. 

Mother said, “I love you both, always. Never forget. Now, row. Row hard and fast and get as far away as you can. Stay down. You know where to go. They will meet you at the Ruins.” She kissed our foreheads and heaved the boat with all of her might from where it was wedged, docked in the mud. My brother and I looked back at her shrinking figure on the shore, her hand clasped over her mouth as she shifted her weight one leg to the other, wanting to dive in after us, skirt clinging to her calves from the mud, awaiting her fate. Neither of us cried. 

As we withdrew from the shoreline, my brother said, “It smells like they are cooking pork!” I stared ahead, alternately rowing left and right with as much force as my muscles could bear to get away from that smell and all of the pain we’ve endured in hiding these last weeks. I clenched my jaw, not turning my head. I said to him, “That is what people smell like when they burn.” His face went white and he clutched the tattered cloth rabbit that mother had sewn for him tighter to his chest.  I saw he was shaking, but there was no time for consolation if we wanted to escape. 

After days of travel, aching muscles and rumbling bellies, the port of the Ruins came into view. We were filthy with the berry juice we used to dye our hair and our skin was burnt or peeling in various patterns from exposure to the uneven Spring sun as we stepped onto land. Still in our nightclothes from our night of escape, we entered the path descending to the center of the Ruins, both huddled together in the horse blanket with leaves and sticks from the riverbank tied to protect our feet. 

An eldery woman stood in the center by the old altar with a fire nearby, cooking something that made my stomach grumble more. She had apparently been expecting us. The lines of her face–crow’s feet and welcoming dimples–deepened with each step we took closer. She leaned on a walking stick in front of her that was carved of a twisted dark and polished wood, with a wolf’s head carved on the top. She had two bowls of bone broth and a loaf of bread waiting by the fire with blankets lying nearby for us to gather for a meal. My heart relaxed for the first moment in days, and I felt a sting of guilt over where my mother must be now. Those thoughts were fleeting, as the old woman was insistent, beckoning to sit and partake, which we did without hesitation. 

I tried to focus on the meal, and to keep hold of that feeling of safety. We had gotten away this time, most likely at great cost to our mother. I wondered how much more we will need to give up considering that we still need to run. I lean over to give my brother another piece of bread. Our eyes meet only for a moment, but I don’t see their childhood glimmer gazing back at me anymore. I wonder if I ever will again.