Thomas Reyes

Dusk on the fifth day since you took up your post, at the watch post on the western edge of Winterhall village. As the shadow of the mountains begins to fall over the rooftops, the sound of shutters closing follows, one after another, from the village. On your patrol during the day, the old folks turned their heads away whenever they met your eyes, and the chatter by the well scattered like an ebbing tide at the sound of your footsteps. Inside the post, a kettle is boiling on the cast-iron stove. The man sitting in the rocking chair in front of it is Thomas Reyes, your senior in the watch. Because your night shifts kept crossing, you haven't once seen each other's faces in five days. With his graying beard and the top button of his uniform undone, he has a worn patrol log resting on his knee. On the open page are the notes: “Three northern boundary stones — pulled up” and “Two sheep from the mill — missing.” Pouring tea into two cups, he looks up at you standing in the doorway.