Starglow Basin angustia se convierte en un laberinto sin salida.

The fear, always the fear, a knife in his throat long since become a part of him, a frigid lance through his body impervious to the usual laws of physics, a hairline blade of unremitting cold or an antenna that amplifies the slightest disturbance in the heated air, what a more learned man would attribute to aether, what a man more learned than the former would attribute to magnetic fields, and in the nexus of these forces Moises presents as a shimmer in the desert, a distortion of space that fails to resolve and clarify with proximity.

He senses the tension on Thiago. The antenna inside of him begins to mirror and ring and fibrillate. Thiago calls for someone—Moises is too far away to make out the words—but he can make out the hunger beneath his voice, a man speaking just to speak.

Saliva pools freely in Moises' mouth. He spits, again and again.

Now he paces a few yards away from the twins. His gait is a series of triplets, as it always is. Uno-dos-tres, uno-dos-tres, he counts in his head, until the words are relieved of all meaning, which doesn't take long, not at all.