Shelda lazily flicked off a mosquito from her face and listened to the silence of the hazy summer day.
Margaret, her cousin, watched Patrick squirrel between the caravans.
“Hoo think we ought to tell the sharpog? He’s sensing s’mthin”.
“Let’s wait…akharam - tomorrow - he’ll find out…”
The air smelled of meadowsweet and dandelions, the grass was damp in the shade. Shelda inhaled freedom, trying to forever capture the essence of being for generations of Travellers. And smiled.
Tomorrow, the agents would come and take down the camp. Patrick would be sent to school. They’d all settle. Unless…