They trekked along the road, westward. He held her by the wrist, dragging Dahlia along.
Occasionally Dahlia stopped moving her legs, letting his strength move her. She risked it only when he looked distracted. And when no one else was around, because there were the times when other people were around too.
All people fleeing the same thing. Dahlia didn’t know what it was. She was five and such disasters were beyond her. All she knew was that it had angered her father even more than he usually was. All she knew was that her mother hadn’t come with.
Dahlia sometimes thought she missed her mother, but other times had forgotten about her.
He stopped dragging her eventually, meaning Dahlia had to keep walking no matter what. That cough had caught up with him and their constant travel in the increasing cold. Only two times did one of their happenstance travelling companions ask if he was all right. Her father said he was, but Dahlia had never known him to say he wasn’t. Even when he’d gotten angry.
Then one day, he didn’t wake up.