The sound came up from under the world: shh shh shh.
Not water. Not breath. A hungry smoothing. The kind of sound a neat man loves because he can hear improvement without looking.
The collage floor trembled. Staples creaked. Shadow-tape tugged its own glue. The trench’s water ticked against its lip, nervous as a cup in a moving cart.
“Foundation,” Dominic said, the word flat as a palm on a chest. “He’s shaving our rough.”
Mireya planted her staff. “Then give him teeth.”
Kael sprawled to one knee, ear pressed to mosaic. His grin showed up like a cut. “He brought a sander,” he whispered. “Let’s feed it rocks.”
“Reader,” Lena called to the fold, wrists lit with the ampersand’s steady ache, “bring us your crayon.”
A drawer slid somewhere far and loving. Paper tore. Wax squeaked. The lig
