her have grown tired of waiting for her to stir and seem intent on rousing her themselves. The boot in her ribs pushes insistently, forcing the woman onto her back.
“Up ye get, girl,” the older man says. “This ain’t no nursery.”
The woman cracks open her eyes, still stinging with sweat, and peers up at the figures standing over her. One is indeed older, his dark beard salted with gray and weathered lines at the creases of his eyes. It is he who is closest to her, leaning on the haft of his spear to get a better gander.
Just Another Struggling Writer 
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