For an unknown reason, her mother stopped the wagon in the middle of the woods, “Lila,” she said, “You go on and get out right here.” The baby was crying. Lila raised her head and looked at her mother. She was five-years-old.
“I want you to get out here and wait on your brothers, they will be coming along directly.”
Lila looked around the dense trees, the sunlight dappling through the tops of those tall pines, filtering down like a host of magical, small fairies. She turned and looked at her mother, short, dark and fierce. There was nothing like Matilda when her eyes grew dark and she tore the leaves off a mulberry switch. So Lila climbed down out of the wagon full of uncertainty. She looked back at the baby and her younger sister.
“See, sit on that log there and just wait, they’ll be along shortly,” and…
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