He will hear the rain before he feels it, a clicking on the dry grass, on the olive leaves.
We own the country we grow up in, or we are aliens and invaders.
Once I've discovered the story, I might restructure it, maybe move things around, set up a clue that something is going to happen later, but that happens much later in an editorial capacity.
The past is still, for us, a place that is not safely settled.
How does this happen? To fall in love and be disassembled.
So many nurses had turned into emotionally disturbed handmaidens of the war, in their yellow-and-crimson uniforms with bone buttons.