He sat there, on a small stool, rubbing a stone between his fingers. He looked down and saw the dirt crumble off the rock, and was shocked by how old his hands looked. Shocked was maybe the wrong word, it happened every time he looked down. But even though this was a regular occurrence, it still shocked him. The lines, the colour, the veins; they all highlighted to him how old he was. And he was old – he turned 93 during the last rains. Robinson chuckled to himself at his age and his body; where he lived, old age was a privilege reserved for only a few. And at 93 he was the oldest man in the village by over 20 years. In fact, the second eldest person in the village was his daughter. A whole generation surrounding Robinson had been absorbed into the spirits around Lowani. But dwelling on the people lost, both young and old, never appealed to Robinson.