Five
For two months before Warren was born, Solma remembers, there was no rain. The topsoil hardened and hot, harsh winds whipped it into dust devils. The seeds wouldn’t take. Nothing grew.
Solma’s mother cradled her swollen belly, tears misting her eyes.
“Little one’s got no chance in a world like this,” she said. “I can feel it.”
But on the day Warren was born, rainclouds gathered in the sky as if they’d been waiting for him to show himself to the world. Solma remembers, at nine years old, running from her mother’s side straight into the deluge, lifting her face to the roaring heavens as fresh rain fell against her skin. It soaked her ragged dress and plastered her hair to her face, but she’d never felt so glorious.
Her brother was here at last, and he’d brought the rains.
She does
