I woke to a sound. Not a cry. A muffle .
The man with the knife laughed. Soft. Like gravel rolling downhill. “Go back to sleep, little cock. This is not your business.” night attack on my little sister
The second man dropped the sack and lunged for me. I was small, but I was fast—fast from chasing goats, fast from running from village dogs. I ducked under his arm and brought the pestle up into his ribs. He wheezed, folded, and stumbled over the low wall of the well. I woke to a sound
The iron connected with his wrist. I felt bones give—a crack like a dry branch. The knife spun into the dust. He howled, a raw animal sound, and staggered back, clutching his arm. The man with the knife laughed
I looked at my hands. They were still wrapped around the pestle. My knuckles were white.
“No,” I said. “She saved herself. She bit him. She never screamed. She knew I would hear the silence.”
Not at his head. My grandmother had taught me: Aim for the hand that holds the weapon. A man without a hand is just a man.