The scene changed. Cyrus was still a child, perhaps a few years older. His footing was surer, his thoughts more sophisticated. He carried a wooden bucket, probably the same one from the earlier memory, toward the river. It was hot, and the water level was low. He'd have to climb down the bank to get any at all.

He'd set the bucket down carefully and was about to begin his descent when he heard the screams. It wasn't uncommon to hear a woman shouting in the village. Women screamed at their children, screamed when giving birth, screamed when they were being beaten. Women screamed all the time over the smallest things, in his opinion. Except his mother.

That's why he didn't recognize her voice right away. He realized it was her when she burst onto the lane, wailing in pain and terror. Flames consumed her clothes, burned away her hair. She beat at her blazing skirts with bloody hands. The skin fell away in huge chunks.

She was trying to get to the river, he realized, his small heart beating furiously in his chest. She needed water, needed help. Without a thought for the sharp rocks and protruding roots, he grabbed the bucket and slid down the bank. It seemed to take forever, while the screaming went on and on. The bucket filled slowly, as if with tar instead of water. The weight was insubstantial, though, and he bounded up the slippery bank faster than he'd ever managed before. His legs and arms should have ached from the exertion, but he gained the top and raced to where his mother had fallen, her body still smoldering, blackened skin indistinguishable from her burned garments. When he threw the water over her, steam rose.

She didn't move. She made no sound. Made no sound, but he couldn't stop the screams in his head.

Men and women from the village had crowded around. More ran toward them. And there was his father, fists clenched so hard blood ran from where his nails bit into his palms, though his face was an impassive mask. "Go home, Simon. Finish making supper."

In an agonizing second, like pulling off a Band-Aid, I returned to the present. Cyrus looked at me with pity. After what I'd seen him go through, he pitied me?

"For having seen it." He stroked the side of my face, and I realized it was wet with tears.

Sniffling against the threat of more, I asked, "How old were you?"