 Penguin Random House Audio presents. Little Family by Ishmael Bea. Read for you by Dion Graham. For those who have no voice, silence remains the unbroken truth. And every so often, that silence is torn by a roaring. Mende proverb, Sierra Leone. If you are to walk toward a field that lies at the edge of the small town of Falloyah when the sun is awake in the sky, you will hear the breeze whistling through the grasses, parting the dry and green strands as it makes its way to you. Or maybe you will think it is the rustling of someone hiding under the vast shrubs. At the end of the field, your eyes will light upon the face of a boy among the grasses, peering intently at something. You try to see what it is by following the trail of his gaze, but you see nothing. Hello, you say. The boy does not respond, only narrows his eyelids against the wind. You stare back at his face, in which youth is steeped in something serious and old, in stories you want to know. You try your luck again. Good morning. You do not know what else to say. Caution trumps curiosity. You sense that you should not move closer. He does not respond. In fact, nothing about his demeanor suggests that he is even aware of your presence. Your eyes search his face one last time. Then you give a sigh and continue on your way. Yet as you go, you glance back, still hopeful of an answer, and then, just as you have given up and turned your full attention to the road ahead, you hear him whistle. Immediately, several answering whistles fill the air. You become confused. Should you move on ahead or go back to the boy? You are more aware of your fear now, but at the same time, your belly burns with cautious excitement. You do not know which feeling to pursue. While you hesitate, the shrubs begin a vigorous dance, but when you look again to see where the boy was sitting, he is gone without you having heard him leave. You set aside your fear and try all the pathways that are visible to you, but none goes any distance. Each time, you find yourself returned to where the boy was sitting, the smaller plants stretching to regain themselves in the wake of his human weight, one. Kapindi brushed his hands against the low-hanging branches of the tree under which he sat, the morning dew on the leaf. Sample complete. Ready to continue?