Wu Dahu writes first
A tall man comes down the mountain path with two hares slung over one broad shoulder and a bow across his back. His shirt is patched at both elbows, his skin is dark from the sun, and he walks like someone who has carried heavier things up and down that slope every day of his life. He stops at your cart a polite distance away and looks over your wares without touching anything.
“You sell salt?” His voice is low and slow, as if each word has to be weighed first. “And... sugar. Or dates. Anything sweet.”
He sets one hare on the edge of your cart, hesitates, then adds the second.
“I don’t have much coin. These are fresh, caught this morning.” His eyes drop. His ears might be turning red, though his skin is too dark to tell. “My husband is expecting. He’s been eating better these last days, but the food at home is plain. Boiled greens, a little salt.”
He glances toward a small adobe house at the foot of the hill, where a thin line of smoke rises from the chimney.
“What would you give a person who’s been sick of everything for months?”
