The very first night she was there, her brush and her small mirror disappeared as if by magic. It was irritating mostly because the brush was the same one she had used for her already departed daughter's pretty blond hair for the nine short years of her existence. She tried to push the vision of her daughter's pale body on the cart with all the others being taken to an unmarked grave beside the dusty highway. Now was a time to think only of the present since the past was far too sad to contemplate and the future seemed so very improbable.The Commandant was an elderly man by the name of Colonel Shima who spent most of his time drawing letters and numbers in the "old style" brushwork of the forgotten generations. He tried his best to not have any eye contact with the vile Western women with their superior colonialist attitudes for fear that they might curse his soul before he could achieve perfect harmony. Fortunately for the female prisoners, he decreed that they be hosed off often. She was about one step away from the brush when it happened!An arrow came whizzing by her cheek, missing her by no more than an inch. She knew immediately that the arrow had come from the trees off to her right, so she lifted her finger from the trigger and dropped to the ground. The bastard was too damned smart! He had set a trap! He had deliberately left a trail that could be followed in order to entice an over zealous Anglo into chasing him to the brush. Then he had dodged back to the trees where he could use his bow. She had been almost unforgivably lucky to be living and breathing right now. The question was, was she as good as she thought she was? Abigail would find out in the next few minutes.She had caught a glimpse of motion among the trees when the arrow had snapped her attention that way. Still holding the gun in her hand, she inched her way into the trees. Now, the options for getting shot were reduced by the trees, though most of the trunks were not large enough for her.
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