DON’T LET GO
THURSDAY, JULY 22, 1779
My fingers ache from clutching the rough fabric of Scar’s shirt, but I don’t let go.
The beautiful shhhhh of the wind blows through the wheat.
No. There is no wind.
Everything is still. Scar is still. Too still.
Shhhhh. Yes. Be still.
I can’t clear my senses. But I don’t want to. I close my eyes and slide back into a dream. There is the rocky path. The dark hemlocks. The marching men. And Josh. Not the cold, crumpled Josh I tripped over in the smoky heat of battle—but the chatting, laughing Josh who walked upriver alongside me yesterday.
Was it just yesterday?