"The ones who survived scattered. I was with my mother. We walked for months trying to find others. Found some, lost them."
"Then it was just us. Then just me." "How old were you?" "Sixteen."
Jesus. She couldn't be more than 20 now. "I'm sorry," Rhett said, and meant it. "Like I said, everyone's sorry."
She set down her bowl. "But you know what's strange? I don't hate them. The ones who did it."
"I hate what they did. I hate what they took. But hating them would mean carrying them with me forever. And I've carried enough." Rhett turned that over.
"How do you let go of something like that?" "You don't let go. You choose where to put it." She looked at him.
"You can put it in anger. Let it burn you down. Or you can put it in the ground. Let it grow into something else."
"That why you wanted to plant?" "Partly. Also because I'm tired of eating your cooking." Rhett actually laughed.
Short, surprised, rusty from disuse, but real. Ayah smiled. "There. That's better."
"What is?" "You laughing. You should do it more." "Haven't had much reason to."
"Then make reasons." They sat in comfortable silence as the stars came out. Rhett found himself relaxing in a way he hadn't in years. The constant hum of guilt and grief was still there, but quieter.
Background noise instead of a scream. "Two days," Ayah said, looking at the sky again. "The rain will come in two days." "And if it doesn't?"
"Then I'll call it myself." Rhett glanced at her. "You can do that?" "My grandmother could. She taught me. Never tried it alone before, though."
She stood, stretching. "Guess we'll see." She went inside. Rhett stayed on the porch, looking out at the dark canyon, at the plot of land they'd broken and planted, at the future he hadn't let himself imagine.
"All right, Caleb," he said quietly. "Maybe I'm staying. Maybe it's time." The wind answered, warm and steady. Two days later, the clouds rolled in.
The storm built slowly, clouds stacking on the western horizon like stones, gray turning to black. Ayah stood in the middle of the planted garden, barefoot, arms raised, speaking words Rhett didn't understand. The language was old, consonants hard and vowels long, rhythm like water over rocks. Rhett watched from the porch, uncertain whether to be skeptical or awed.