His pace was steady, as if each step was a second of time, a beat of a heart. Yolanda would come out of her dreaming and look up to the horizon to watch him. Sometimes with a twinge of fear she'd notice how much bigger he appeared.
It followed in each generation. Her children learned to ignore the noises adults made in the night. To not question the mother about red eyes and bruises the color and size of an eggplant. It was the way of life.
Still, Yolanda had a place inside her, a gauge that measured when the bend of the stalk was near to its breaking.
/div>Sometimes it seemed he hadn't moved any closer at all.