The iron key in my apron pocket felt like a block of river ice pressing against my thigh. I could still smell the sea salt from the puddle of water where Isaac had just dissolved on the dirt floor, but outside, the beautiful orange horizon of Dodoma was curdling into a greasy, waxy smoke. The low rumble of the printing presses from the distance wasn't just a sound anymore; it was a vibration coming through the soles of my feet, shaking the small clay house until the tin roof rattled like loose teeth.
"Esther, we have to move," Leo whispered.
He was sitting on the edge of the wooden bench, his hands bound tightly with a clean khanga my mother had torn to stop the bleeding from his shoulder. The dark, jagged scars where the shadow had pierced him were still angry and swollen, but his eyes
