What are you thinking about? I asked you in the darkness of the evening when you sat a long time staring at the flames.
Home, you said.
Really?
Yeah.
You want to go back?
With your chin on your knees in the shadows under the tall white trunks you looked smaller than you should. You picked up a stone and threw it far out over the hill toward the river where it soared for a moment and ticked off the rocks at the bottom.
No you said. I never want to go back.
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