After dinner, Evelyn Ford and Ronan Kendrick walked hand in hand back to the log cabin. A thick layer of snow covered the ground, blanketing the entire farm in silver. It was a beautiful sight.
Amidst the exquisitely beautiful snowscape, the dangerous night fell once more.
"The authorities can't be out of food. The provinces in the Northwest were barely affected, and the reserve granaries from other provinces and cities were all moved over. Why aren't they distributing food to the refugees? They don't even seem willing to hand out wheat bran. Besides, there are so many begging refugees in Tarr City. It shouldn't be that hard to gather them and build a refugee shelter."
Evelyn Ford couldn't understand it.
"It's the eighth year," Ronan Kendrick reminded her.
