Lion Head Mesa it's hardly sink or swim when all is well if the ticket sells

the thing about survivors is that they do what the dead can't: they press on in spite of death.

she trawled the mud in deep thought. so far, nothing -- but somewhere here was the skull of a man that had, all those eons ago, turned qiao's life trajectory from wife to survivor.

flinging a rock aside in frustration, the crone nearly started as she saw what she had first assumed was a body was very much alive.

she scuttled back to the rock and secured it between her teeth. she reminded herself these were her enemies, and the rock the dark messenger -- and poised, sat ready to bash it over the body's head --

only to see it was a young girl, half-drowned and caked in mud. qiao had no love for children, despite being a mother many moons ago -- yet even then, the sorry state of this girl reminded her of another girl once.

how many girls, through how many lifetimes? this world was cruel to them; they were born into it with a yokel to their necks and they died under it; child, girl, wife, crone -- their only use to men the thing held warm between their legs.

qiao was slow to lower the stone. let that be her only kindness to this stranger whose sole crime was being born in the wrong pack, at the wrong time.