The wheat burns quicker than the livestock. We hide in the barn, eyes pressed to splintered cracks. Smoke curls, seeping into our lungs, gray tendrils scented of burning flesh and toasted bread. I grab my sister’s hand, feel the clammy wetness of fear. I pray the smoke makes us invisible. We swallow ash coughs. Holding our breath against the curtain of smoke. The soldiers don’t bother to look in the loft.
"Classic"
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