It was the opposite of everything. No more the steady breath of fire in the hearth. No more the solid oaken walls that Grandpa hewed and Grandma charred. No more the steady view that only seasons marked.

She was aloft atop the bedding, swaying on the ruts, the creaks of wooden wheels squeaking out of step with the team’s heavy clip-clop.

Another place awaits, Ma says, though where or what Faith couldn’t tell. How when all who’d gone before hadn’t returned?

Pa’s steady shoulders hitched with the reins. “Prepare,” he said. “We’ll circle wagons and there’d be chores ‘fore long to tend.”

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt © Alicia Jamtaas