At that it had simply collapsed, its full weight pinning me to the gangway, and its body had broken apart like so much old masonry as its arms and legs snapped in two and its head rolled back from its shoulders—to promptly shatter against the steel mesh floor.
That’s when the rains came, washing away the clay and drenching my hair and clothes, which were a beggar’s clothes, until finally I rolled upon the gangway and peered down at our encampment—which was visible only because of Billy the Skid’s battery-powered light—and realized, abruptly, that I still gripped the shem. The Holy Shem.
The Secret Name of God.
I didn’t move, didn’t breath, for what seemed a long time. In the end, I merely turned my fist and opened it—letting the slip of parchment fall. Watching as it fluttered into the
