I am not hungry but know I must eat. The child inside me demands it. I think now that I should have told him but it is so early; a few more days will make it more real. Hope here is still fragile, the way you semi-believe the weather forecast and keep watch out the window for snow.

What if he doesn't come back? I suspect what he's doing is dangerous; it must be. My father was killed by the rebellion because he stood in the way of change. And my brother. I don't want to believe what I think is happening. Even now, with order restored.

They're rounding up dissidents, those known to have been involved. Is he one? I never wanted to know.

But I wish now I had told him.