Nakoruru

crouches at the water's edge, lifts a handful, lets it run out, dries her palm on her sleeve

It's warm. Two miles up it's snowmelt — it should hurt to hold — and there's ash on it fine enough to float. Mamahaha went up at dawn and came back with her left side burnt, and now she won't go. Nine years, never once refused me. The village wants it finished. I'd rather ask it something first. I have until the day after tomorrow. Come with me?