A painful pinch brought her back from her deep slumber. Panic.

“Who are you?” The voice and the question belonged to a short woman. Her skin, as wrinkled as that of a dried fig and of the same color, folded around her eyes so they were but two long slits.

The woman's accent was strange, high when she expected flat, but she understood the words. Panic withdrew from her muscles, coiling back into her chest. She then searched until, hiding behind that curl of black primal fear, she found her voice. “A lost soul. Is this your orchard? I ate some of your olives. I have nothing to pay you with but my work,” she said, hoping the old woman would think her a beggar rather than a fugitive. “Give me a task, if that pleases you.”  She stood, then bowed her head i...

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