I ran into the nearest house, desperate for an idea to send Waylah back into hiding. Preferably forever.
I mumbled, ‘Sorry,’ as I pushed back the door. It seemed the right thing to do, even if the owners weren’t there. Any emotion other than anger was useful for remembering who I was. And that I didn’t want to murder everyone I met. Honest.
Picture frames rattled on the walls. I stumbled into the table. My hand plunged into an unfinished bowl of soup, long since crusted into the pottery and scattered with insect corpses. I reeled back.
The bowl shuddered to the table’s edge and fell off, shattering on the floor. A glass of dusty water followed it across the tabletop.
I caught the glass before it fell and stared into the murky liquid, ignoring the rumbling under my feet. The villagers h
