Tara Aggarwal

Messenger

“Deirna, mother’s calling.” I glanced behind me at the warm familiar voice sounded behind me, a welcome contrast to hear besides the howling wind of winter that accompanied it. Shuffling inside for a moment was Benji’s hunched head enclosed in layers and layers of thick, rough fabric, leaving only his mop of brown hair – the same color as mine – displayed. Here, in this day and age, those who resembled the dirt seemed fated to work it.