“I am afraid you will wake them up.”
“No, I will not.”
It turned out that the oldest child was awake—he had heard and understood everything. He was but nine years old, but he understood everything—he met me with a deep, stern look.
“Will you take your gun?” he asked thoughtfully and earnestly.
“I will.”
“It is behind the stove.”
“How do you know? Well, kiss me. Will you remember me?”
He jumped up in his bed, in his short little shirt, hot from sleep, and firmly clasped my neck. His arms were burning—they were so soft and delicate. I lifted his hair on the back of his head and kissed his little neck.
“Will they kill you?” he whispered right into my ear.
“No, I will come back.”