The sky tonight is the color of old bruises. I watched it from the mud, counting the stars that don't care. Isolara is asleep—if you can call it that—her breathing shallow, her fingers twitching. I told her the story of the river we used to swim in, the one with the silver fish. She smiled. It was worse than crying. They can take our names, our bodies, our hope, but they can't take the stories. I'll tell her another tomorrow. Even if I have to crawl to do it.