Illustrated by Richard Kniazuk
There is a part of the world that has never seen daylight. Their skin has grown sallow and their eyes dimmed and deadened. Here they echolocate. You can hear it if you listen hard. The sounds reverberate and sting the ears as they bounce the drums. Do they know not what they say? Is it just the guttural hawks that sound like our words? They say it over and over, unrelenting. “I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.”