Tidge wakes late in the morning within a net of drowsiness. His brother’s ankle is heavy over his. He feels scrubbed by the events of yesterday. There’s promise in the new day’s cleanness. He sits up and listens. Bells outside are trying to pull the world to their god. The sound is like the bleat of a lamb in a frosted field, bleakly alone. It shuts off abruptly as if silenced by force.
They will not cease to war against you until they turn you from your religion.