WANBOR AND I ARE CAUGHT in an early summer storm. Forewarned last night by great flashes of lightning that sliced through a dark, thunderous sky. The kind that, a long time ago, would keep me awake until my grandfather told me stories of a giant named Ramhah who lived on Lum Sohpetbneng, and occasionally liked to rearrange his furniture. I peer up hopefully; as far as I can see there’s a dense quilt of grey.
“I told you it would rain,” says Wanbor.
I maintain a defeated silence.
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