That night, as usual, Alma couldn’t sleep.
But it wasn’t for the usual reasons. It wasn’t because she was listening to thought after thought, spinning through fear after fear.
Tonight wasn’t a monologue.
It was an argument.
Not a very good one, but an argument nonetheless.
You sounded so stupid, her mind said. And you’re going to keep sounding stupid because you don’t know anything about astronomy.
Maybe, Alma said back. But maybe not.
You almost had an episode in front of everyone, her mind said. And you definitely will have one if you go to another meeting.
Maybe, Alma said back. But maybe not.
Even if you really did see a Starling, her mind said, there’s nothing you can do about it.
Maybe, Alma said. Maybe.
But maybe not.
Because no matter what her mind said, something had happened to Alma yesterday. No matter what her mind said, she didn’t feel as empty, as dark, as Alma-less as she had felt only a day before.
Yesterday she had sparked. And today, today that spark had grown.
So finally, after lying under her covers and arguing and arguing and arguing with herself for far too long, finally, Alma said, “I told you last night. Be quiet.”
She got out of bed.
She didn’t know what she should do. And she was still afraid of what she might find out there behind the house.
But she tucked the quintescope eyepiece into one nightgown pocket and a flashlight into the other. She opened her window, and she stepped out onto the roof.
She had to do something.