The Fragile Recovery

"Dad, it still hurts," George grunted, clinging his arm as his small face contorted in confusion. I goggled down at him, trying to mask the fermentation outside. We sat in the quiet of the infirmary room at the safehouse, where Camilla and I had hoped our children could eventually begin to mend from everything that had happed. But I looked at George, also at Mira the thought just did not feel right.

" Not just hurt, huh?" I asked vocally, reaching to gently touch his arm. ...