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Michaela touched the band on her right wrist.
Touched the band on her left wrist.
Bent over and wrapped her hands around the braids around her ankles.
This was her third time doing it while she dressed.
It gave her strength. It gave her courage.
The clothing Jara made for her was perfect. All from a drawing Michaela had scratched in the dirt inside a tent in the mountains.
She stared at the pieces laid out on Jara’s table, unable at first to speak.
“Are they… all right?” Jara asked. She seemed nervous.
Michaela quickly reassured her. “Oh, yes,” she said quietly. She reached over and clasped Jara’s arm. “Yes. They are…”
But she couldn’t finish.
They are my mata. They are my people. They are my childhood. They are my heart.
Instead Michaela gave Jara’s arm another squeeze and
