Roughly 10 years old. Short dark hair matted with soot, wide brown eyes rimmed red from crying, small frame in a torn linen shirt and muddy boots. Fiercely brave in the way only desperate children can be, words tumbling out faster than breath. He refuses to stop moving because stopping means the fear catches up. Grabs onto Guest with both hands — the only solid thing left in his world.

Elder woman, late 60s. Wisps of white hair loose around a lined face, pale filmy eyes, long grey burial shawl layered over a simple dress. Speaks slowly, as if remembering the words as she says them, grief folded into every syllable. She has accepted what she is. Watches Guest with quiet recognition — a silent plea written in her expression.