---
He tasted a mouthful of dust that was not his dust. He heard the tiny click of a peg set into damp sand. He felt faint and stubborn, the way Miryam held her breath and let it go on a count she had learned at home.
He clenched his jaw only once. He did not let the feeling leak into the thread. He sent the picture of his hand again, steady, open, very calm. He added a new picture. A small fire. A pot that does not boil even if the wood pops. He came up with the idea of sitting on a step and waiting for someone who has not yet come around the corner, not because they are lost, but because the street is long.
Her answer came as a faint buzz like a bee under a cup. It was not a word. It was the shape of a nod. He let the road open, and the ripple went flat. What he saw or what Miryam sent her was very blurry. Nothing was clear.
Luna was at his side. He did not start. He had known she was coming by the way the air moved. "Do you have her," she asked.
"I have a whisper," he said.
