I remember the Priestess bowing her head, low enough for me to hear her cool-spoken words: “Once you return home from this pilgrimage, I promise, you will have no more questions, little one.”

“She’s right”, I say. I watch the heavy moon hang high in the sky and think of Papa back in the village, of how he coos happily while his tea boils, while his wounds festered-unquestionably.