It was on the third day of the downpour that your father called me. I had stubbornly refused to stay at the place I called home and would trek through the mud out to sell, hoping the rain would hide its anger that day but it never did. I was shivering at the corner, holding the edges of my wrapper up to my knees and neglecting the oranges which by now were covered in wet sand. I looked his way and saw his hands signalling to me. I wasted no time; I ran to where he was...