He'd heard stories before, of obstinate frontiersman whose dreams of individualism transformed into the putrefied bodies of their children. Sitting at the dining table with is head in his hands, sighed horribly, then raised his eyes to Katerina's. He saw her for the first time clearly, who sat across from him in a ochre dress, silent, holding him up with her steadiness, her faith. She knew what to do. He turned to Clara, who was babbling into the mane of the wooden pony on wheels that he had crafted last Christmas. Katerina and Stefan hadn't eaten that day. Clara would be hungry by morning. He knew what to do.
The next morning, Katerina, who had no more milk, heated up the last of the water for Clara. She and Stefan each took a nourishing waft and a sip. There wasn't much to pack, and necessity required that they save fuel at any rate. They loaded up in silence and started through the fog-like dust. Rural smog.
Katerina did not see him as a failure, so he was not...
