Urdon Pov
I dragged my right boot forward over the heap of broken glass on the threshold, keeping my weight balanced so my good shoulder did not slouch toward the porch floorboards. My right arm was still stuck inside the tight white sheet, heavy and entirely dead against my ribs. The morning air was thin and freezing, and the smell of the burned storage shed was strong, mixed with the sharp scent of the wet river gravel below the steps.
"Do not go past the bottom rail, Urdon," Freda whispered from behind my left shoulder. She kept her wire-wrapped broom spear held flat against her thigh, her knuckles white and raw from the night of fighting.
"I am going to the steps," I said.
