The following week passed in a blur of misery and fear.
There was nothing Renard could do except wait and watch. The walls of the wagon were built high enough that even standing on tiptoes, none of them could see out the small barred windows near the roof. The only way to tell they were still moving was the constant creaking of wheels, the occasional sharp turns that threw everyone against the walls, and the bone-jarring bumps when they hit rocks or ruts in the mountain road.
'Like cattle being shipped to market,' Renard thought as he shifted position for the hundredth time that day. 'Except cattle probably get treated better.'
