Startled by his words, Anna dared to look down for the first time. The boy’s feet wove deftly between the donkey’s hooves. He did not smile but his teeth flashed with the whiteness of eggshells. The flash sent Anna into a tailspin of memories.

He was the young shepherd! With green eyes. From three years ago. The one who had asked her mother for milk moments before water poured from between her legs. Hours before the birth and death of her only brother …

The image of her mother rose quickly behind the remembrance. Her night-colored skin, her powerful arms, her spicy scent. Anna began to drown in a pool of thick, warm grief.

The boy nodded toward the ladle. “You have not had water all day,” he said. “You will die if you do not—”

A large hand, seemingly from the sky, dropped on Anna’s leg. She braced, ready to fight. Her eyes latched on to the owner of the hand. It was Solomon. His eyebrows knelt together above his gray eyes. He was frowning. In a swift motion, he unraveled the tunic from her face. He lifted the ladle to her lips. “Drink,” he said.

Anna clenched her jaw. If she were to refuse water, she might die of thirst. But the smell of wetness, of damp wood, enticed her. She trembled with need. With mortal craving. Until instinct overcame reason. Her hands leapt out and clutched the ladle. She pushed the tunic beneath her chin and sucked the liquid between greedy lips. The first gulp stung her throat. The second loosened her tongue. The third rinsed her spine.

The young boy watched the newest shepherd with curiosity. Able to see Anna’s face for the first time, he was surprised to find that they looked much alike. Solomon noticed the boy’s stare and hurried him on. “The others are waiting,” he told him. Solomon gave his newest shepherd a firm pat on the back then stepped forward, strong in his stride, to retake his position at the helm.

Later in the day, Anna peered into the vast land before them. Nowhere along the horizon could she find the interruption of a village. Or trees. Or shelter of any kind.

Where were they going? What would they do to her?

If only she could go home!

Her eyes squeezed shut against the sting of new tears. As if reading Anna’s mind, the donkey stopped and rooted its legs into the earth. Without thinking, she slid from her seat and dropped like a sack of olives to the ground. Feeling its load lightened, the donkey resumed its pace, leaving Anna behind.

“What are you doing?” Judas yelled at her over the flock’s bobbing backs. He kept his forward stride. “Get up or the animals will crush you!”