INDY
By late afternoon, the elders had decided that we were no longer welcome at the celebration—at least, not in an unkind way.
Mila pressed wrapped bread and roasted meat into my hands with a knowing smile. Otis muttered something about young people needing air. Irene only looked at me for a long moment, her gaze steady and searching, before she handed me a flask of tea.
“Go,” she said simply. “Before everyone starts staring again.”
With that, we decided to climb the nearby mountain.
Neither of us spoke at first.
When we finally reached a clearing halfway up the mountain ridge, the wind greeted us. It was light, carrying the scent of the budding leaves.
We spread a woven blanket over the grass. The elders had packed more food than necessary, as though anticipating that convers
