The humidity gripped Sylvie like wet paint smothering a wall. Her hands, dry and chapped, burned like acid in the heat. She raised her skirt to wipe her face; no neighbours would see.
“Where’s my dinner?” a voice rasped.
Listless, she looked at the wagon, prayed the babe still lived, and swung the axe. The confused chicken laid her head on the stump to rest.