Hess slammed awake.

She was drenched in sweat, heart pounding out of her chest. She reached around to her left, and felt the damp mass of curls atop the head of a small sleeping form. She breathed a sigh of relief. Her son Silas sprawled out next to her, clutching his worn stuffed owl. It was a relic from the days before the Great Drought, somehow preserved from all the pain and suffering brought in the days after. Silas loved the owl, and it never left hi. . .