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Metal hums under her fingers as Ginger circles the room, touching out the lamps. Silence. Blue grows through the windows.

Little Crove’s conked out under the table with a bag of Oreos; she smiles, wipes crumbs from his mouth and gathers him to bed. Even asleep, his face is concerned.

The blue pales, grows harder. Ginger locks the shutters, but pauses at the last one. Steadman’s watching from the control tower. His goggle eyes are blank.

It’s still silent. White fire cracks ringward, outside; the water tanks flower steam. The house begins rising, steady as anything, straight up toward the moon.