She hid beneath the large oak, rubbed at the dark finger marks that peppered her arms and legs. The aching had not yet started, but she knew it would come.
She could hear Mama calling for her, promising it was safe.
Olly, olly oxen free!
She should run, dance toward the soft voice, touch home and
be safe. But she couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
She’d stay curled in the dapple shade of the oak tree and
devise an elaborate story. A tale that would explain everything. One that she
would tell for years. One that everyone would believe.
Even herself.
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