The schoolhouse skeleton stood against the sky, a promise made of timber and scrap iron. The communal effort had shifted from the monumental raising of trusses to the meticulous, piece-by-piece work of installing purlins, battens, and finally, the roof tiles themselves. The rhythm was slower now, less dramatic, but no less purposeful. Each tile nailed into place was a word in a sentence they were writing together, a shield against the coming winter.
Finnian's life had settled into a profound and simple pattern. He woke, he worked, he ate, he slept. The frantic, grasping energy that had once powered him was gone, replaced by a deep, steady current of participation. He was a note in the city's chord, and his only responsibility was to remain in tune.
