Milan rubbed his chin. The table on which he stood was new but Petia hadn’t seen fit to get rid of the motley assortment of chairs around it, at least.
The wind blew cold and dry at Petia’s jacket as her boots picked their way across calcified lumps of fallow field. There were no distances marked on Milan’s map, just where to turn and the next landmark to walk to.
“Something inside me changed,” Milan told her. “I don’t know what. Something inside me shifted, and I started to think of time differently.”
He looked up into her face as though trying to read her. “I’m just grabbing the stuff it doesn’t look like you need. And I need very little.”