6
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“Imagine, I think of you, and here you are.”
In the cold of the Limen—this fragment I’ve slipped to now a hundred times that seems cut off from the rest of the world—Matiu stands behind me. His breath on my neck is lava hot, rich and nutty, like pecan pie. There’s a hint of coconut.
Beyond the curtain, something red and wet moves in the distance. What is beyond? Why am I forever seeing snatches of something between the folds of fabric? Always something different. Where do the Waifs go, and what and who meets them on the other side?
I can’t be here. I need to recharge. Real sleep. Not this.
“Matiu, I can’t.”
“For me, too, it is...an indiscretion.”
“It saps my drift. Something bad is happening. People are dying. I need drift, Matiu.”
“You are speaking of àw. Becau
