I don’t remember what came before the long night, except as dusty words on a rotting page. Memory has a way of fading, falling to the immediate concerns of life. Survival leaves no room for dreams.
I don’t know the names of the rivers we forded. I don’t know where we were on that last day, in what country or land we stopped. Our maps were old, stained with fear and hope, pieced together of scraps left from before the fall.