---
A little of the pull slipped, like a dog trying a door. John took it by the collar and shut it. "I will learn to control it," he said. "I will imagine it as valves. I will practice until my breath can open and close them the way a smith can make a fire taller without making it leave the hearth."
Rhea had come over in time to hear the metaphors and approve of the lack of poetry. "Good," she said.
They ate quick food meant for the living rather than the happy. They drank water that tasted like iron and promises. They laid their bedrolls where the ground remembered last night's chaos and smelled like the inside of a beast's bad decisions. John kept the pull tucked as tight as a coin in a fist. When he let it expand enough to feel the shape of it again, the nearest lantern leaned on its hook, and he pulled it back without being asked.
