Thomas is standing at the window, a rooster crowing in the nearby distance. The sky still has the final purple remnants of night that it stubbornly clings to in the face of the overpowering dawn. A cup of goats milk sits forgotten on the table. A basin of water sits unused by the door.
Clean trails run down his upper cheeks. His eyes are red, bleary, exhausted.
His eye catches Martha carrying water back to the main house. She can’t see him; she’s focused on her task.
He tries to suppress a yawn while whispering “…but Lazarus…”. He yawns again, shakes his head, lowers his eyes.
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