The girl looked up into Elijah’s stare. Milcah?
His arms stopped in mid swing and let the wineskin fall against his knees. It couldn’t be Milcah. Only last week he talked with her.
Yet this girl had Milcah’s round, black eyes. Her olive skin. Maybe. He couldn’t see under all that dirt. What was on her cheek? A bruise?
A rope bound her wrists to a line of thirty girls. She looked down at the ground and shivered in the January air. As she walked by, her robe touched his arm, and the odor of old feces struck his nostrils.
The line followed her. Each girl stared down at the heels of the girl ahead, numb to Elijah’s gaze.