Rain fell softly beyond the window of the shelter.

Inside an old woman stirred a pot of gruel over a fire.  The room had a dirt floor, a table, and two wooden beds.  The old woman’s face was weathered and smudged with grime.

“Mina, it is no so bad.”  The old woman said, not raising her head from the pot as she spoke.

The young woman with her in the room shivered in the corner.  Her mother’s words angered her, causing her face to turn red in sharp contrast to the rest of her fair skin.  Her raven-black hair was barely visible in the dim light. 

“How can you say such a thing?  If father were here he would have their heads, all of them.”  Her rose-colored lips were taught with indignation.

“No, dear Mina.  They would...

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