“Run,” I whispered.
Behind us, the man with the broken wrist was shouting. The other was groaning. But we knew the path to the headman’s house—every root, every turn. We ran barefoot through thorn and stone, and Meera did not make a sound. Not one. night attack on my little sister
I didn’t think. I grabbed the iron pestle my grandmother used to grind spices—heavy, cold, a foot long. “Run,” I whispered