Alma woke up.
At first, her vision was checkered with black. Her mouth felt dry, and her body was stiff. She was lying on the ground, flat on her back.
The jar, clutched in her hand, was full of fire. Every copper tip flickered with red-gold flames.
And next to her was the Starling.
Right away, it was clear to Alma that the Starling did not have long left. She wasn’t glowing, not one bit. Her skin was dull and flat, like tarnished metal. Her eyes were closed. Her hair was limp and tangled. The sound coming from her was low-pitched and dragging, like the tolling of a funeral bell.
“Can you hear me?” Alma whispered.
The Starling stirred. Two great black eyes blinked open. Alma held her breath as the Starling’s gaze focused on her for a moment. There was light inside the Starling, at least. Alma could see it. But it was so dim, it was so weak.
The Starling’s eyes closed again.
“Hold on,” Alma said. “I’m going to get you home.”
Alma placed the fire jar and the quintescope into her backpack, and pulled the straps on. She put her flashlight into her pocket. Bending down, she lifted the Starling with her now-dingy-gray-bandaged hands and cradled her like an infant, her long limbs hanging limply down.
And then Alma, with her light burning and growing inside her, set out.
To the south was the silo, smoking and smoldering. To the east, Second Point Peak towered above like some watchful stone giant. To the west, there were trees, their roots drinking from the source of the Fourth Point Creek. And who knew how far the Deep Downs extended? Maybe its tunnels were beneath her feet even here.
Alma wasn’t going to any of those places though. She was heading to the center of town, to the very center.
The ShopKeeper had told her to come to the top at the end.
This, she was certain, was the end.
Alma set out for the Fifth Point.