*Ava*
The days slip past in a blur of work and worry. Samira and her abuelo’s home sits on the edge of a small valley, its whitewashed walls and low clay roof sheltered by olive and orange trees.
I wake each morning to the smell of baking bread, the sound of roosters, and to the creak of the wooden shutters swinging open as Samira lets sunlight into the little house.
I try not to think about where Luca is or whether he’s in danger, but every other moment, every pause between chores, my mind rushes back to him.
In the mornings, we tend to her abuelo, who lies in a large bed in the back room. His raspy breath comes slowly, but his eyes still brighten when Samira speaks to him. She feeds him broth, adjusts the blankets, smooths the creases in his brow. I help when I can, fetching water fr
