Four hundred years in slavery, the Hebrew people await deliverance. . . .
Outside, the hot urgency of survival pulsed. But in the thatched hut, where only a stray sunbeam found entrance, all was quiet. The child slept, his stomach rising and falling with each breath, his chin promising dimples, his lips puckering gently.
Her son.
Son. A word once bursting with joy and celebration now conjured specters of cold-eyed crocodiles and stone-faced guards—both demanding the destruction of her baby. This son was a birth she would not celebrate, a child she should not have, a secret she could not keep....
Her son.
Son. A word once bursting with joy and celebration now conjured specters of cold-eyed crocodiles and stone-faced guards—both demanding the destruction of her baby. This son was a birth she would not celebrate, a child she should not have, a secret she could not keep....