The women were there, you know, like a living wall—Ada, Kerry, Hina, Vera, Kina—such closeness of their bodies and the heat of them almost suffocating me. Their eyes were bright, not with tears as one might expect, but with something wilder: relief so sharp it was almost violent.
Hina was the one to open the ball, certainly. Her glance pierced Ryan and Mitt, and her voice, like a knife, only just taken out of its sheath, said, "Dexter isn't leaving this tribe again." The words were accusing, toying with her fingers like she wanted to grab someone's throat. "This is all your fault. We lost him nearly because of your stupidity."
Then her expression crumpled. One second, she was a storm—the next, she was on me, hands roaming my chest, my arms, my sides, searching for wounds. "You're not hurt, are you? Those filthy bitches from Ravina's tribe—they didn't touch you, did they? Didn't bully you?" Her voice cracked, but her grip tightened, as if she could hold me together by force alone.
