Sunday:
After a few days exploring the coast, the trio decides to move inland along a small path leading to higher ground. They spot smoke in the distance—a campfire. As they approach cautiously, voices filter through the air: laughter, the clanging of a pot, and a child’s singsong voice.
Roman raises a hand, signaling for caution. “Could be anyone.”
Ivy Mae steps forward, calling out, “Hello! We mean no harm.”
The laughter stops, and a man’s voice replies, “Come on over! You must be travelers.”
They step into a clearing to find a family of ten. A cheerful woman in her 40s waves at them. “Welcome! My name’s Maria. This is my husband, David, and our clan.”
Children of all ages dart around—three boys and three girls, ranging from a toddler clinging to her mother’s skirt to a teenage girl sitting on a log, whittling a stick. An older man with a graying beard and a woman in her 70s sit beside a fire, while a great-aunt with sharp eyes knits a blanket in the corner.
The blind child, a boy of about eight, is seated with his hands tracing the bark of a branch, a serene smile on his face.