The air was soft, so soft we could not feel it. The last sun burned the volcano. As we brought the goats into their pen, a burping rumble from somewhere above, as of a huge pot of water boiling. The night grew calm.
I awoke weak and drunk. My daughter was dead. The goat was dead. My wife would not open her eyes. I could not understand what was happening. I felt like I needed to escape, but I could not decide from what.
The village lay asphyxiated around me. The stillness of the night addled my slow, tired head.
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