By the third week, Rook was different. His veins pulsed steadily, no longer burning. His control was tighter, more natural. He could feel the world's weight like an engine purring beneath his ribs.
The other Baptized at the waystation watched him with unease. Some muttered that he was rising too fast. Others whispered that the Road wanted him for something bigger.
Rook ignored them. One night, he set his hands on the wheel and swore to himself.
"I won't be swallowed. I'll master this, or die trying."