sons could be birds,
taken broken up to the mountain
taken broken up to the mountain
It is a shame, Nathaniel thinks - not for the first time - that she got him and not somebody else. That he is here and not a knowledgeable person, or a helpful person, or a friendly person. "Peter," he responds, and shakes his head. "No." Nathaniel hardly knows anyone, of course. A handful of naturals, mostly farmers. An even smaller handful of Outlanders, many of whom go nameless in memory - just a cluster of faces growing more vague by the minute. Nathaniel tries to imagine the sort of person who requests a hand-knit sweater from a stranger, and thinks if isn't the sort of person he'd get along with.
"Well…" he says with a shrug. "He's probably smaller than me." He holds out his arms as if to demonstrate they are entirely too long, much like the rest of him, lanky despite his slouch, his own clothes dirty and threadbare. "Could you use something of mine for a pattern?" Nate wonders anyway. "Just… make it smaller?"
"Well…" he says with a shrug. "He's probably smaller than me." He holds out his arms as if to demonstrate they are entirely too long, much like the rest of him, lanky despite his slouch, his own clothes dirty and threadbare. "Could you use something of mine for a pattern?" Nate wonders anyway. "Just… make it smaller?"
