Sam's tired brain was still struggling to make sense of the scene in front of her when her sobbing sister flung herself into her arms.
“S-Sam!” her sister wailed. “There was a fire. I was the only one—Everyone’s d— dea—”
A . . . fire? Everyone else, dead? It didn't make any sense.
Above her sister's head, she saw Carl's cheek twitch.
“Poor thing,” Meda cooed, placing a comforting hand on her back.
“She wandered into town this morning. She was looking lost, asking for Sam,” Jeremy explained. “So we brought her here, and then she told us . . . what happened. I'm so sorry, Sam.”
“Terrible, terrible news,” Carl murmured gravely. “Thank you for bringing her to us, Jeremy, Meda. Sam and I will see to Robin from here.”
Meda reluctantly stepped away from the crying girl. “Let me know if either of you need anything,” she said. “I can brew a calming tea, if needed. . . . Or I can listen. I’m sorry, Sam.”
Head bowed solemnly, Carl walked Meda and Jeremy to the door. Then he locked it behind them.
Once they'd made it back across the street, he turned back to Sam and Robin.
His sympathetic expression was gone.
“Tell me, now, how it is you've come here.”