The old man is snoring again. It’s the only sound that escapes his lips these days. So she lies awake listening, wishing she could rouse him and talk about what they’ve seen.
He speaks in other ways — widened eyes as he reaches knobby fingers to touch her belly, a silent laughter in his smile as she shuffles along on swelling ankles. Some days he looks like he’d burst into song, if he still had the voice.
What she’d give in this dark hour to hear him repeat the promised name over and over and over.
She rolls to one side and feels for the holy secret, kicking to life in an old woman’s body.