I lie on the pedestal beside the sleeping child. A stone mage sprawls limply in the street, still alive, still weeping. I tuck my knees into my torso. The woman guides Green-limbs away, and I don't care where, don't care that they ask me nothing else. No burner will come. That is enough for me.

Curling under a cloak beside the child, his shoes worn through, I let the tears of days and nights wrack my body. My hands itch against salted meat, a bottle for when he wakes, I whisper, "we run no more, child."