As the boy gradually regained awareness, he could not tell how much time had elapsed. His senses were first drawn to the fabric beneath his head and the blanket that had been draped over him. He pulled at it feebly, feeling excessively dry and hot.

As he withdrew his hand from beneath the covers, his elbow collided with something, and he discerned that the damp contents of his backpack had been scattered beside him. It was only then that he noticed the hot, steaming crates in the center of the cave.

"I was beginning to wonder how much longer it would be until you woke," a voice snarled from his right. The boy's echolocation revealed who it was, and his head twitched in that direction, meeting Kismet at the entrance to the cave . . . the highest layer of her cave; he recognized it at once. He did not even need to look at the large rock dividing the cooled water from the hot spring.

For a moment that stretched into infinity, he stared at her, then an intense fury surged through him. "You should have stayed away," he hissed, tossing the blanket aside. But as he tried to stand, his head pulsed with pain and his vision went dark, causing him to collapse back down and groan in agony.

"Easy." Kismet crept closer.

The boy glared at her, defiantly raising his hand to shove the blanket aside, but froze when he discovered his hand tightly wrapped in bandages.

"Not only have you a concussion . . ." Kismet took the blanket from him and folded it before placing it in a corner. "That hand of yours doesn't look well either. It had shown signs of infection yesterday; you even came down with a fever."

She looked down at him with an expression of deep concern, and the boy instinctively raised his left hand to his forehead. As soon as he touched his skin, he sensed the dry heat and released a shaky breath.

"A pair of pinchers claimed that you seemed to have been caught in that flood and washed down the waterfall." She looked at him like she wanted to ask more—especially why he was alone. The boy silently pleaded with her not to. He knew not whether she understood . . . how much she understood. But all she said was: "I could not wake you for more than a day."

"More than a . . ."

"Drink," Kismet cut him off, shoving his water bag toward him. "You need hydration after such a long unconsciousness."

The boy's eye moved slowly downward, meeting the water bag, before he disregarded it and sank back onto his sheet, closing his eye. A cry of surprise escaped his mouth as his uninjured arm was forcefully tugged upward. "I said drink," hissed Kismet, brandishing the water bag in front of his face. "Lest I shove this entire thing down your throat!"

After staring at her for a solid five seconds, he wordlessly grabbed the bag. Once he tasted the initial drop, he couldn't stop until he had emptied the entire bag.

"Good," said Kismet. "And now rest. The concussion should take care of itself shortly if you do not overly strain yourself. About the fever . . ." Something else hit Henry's leg. "There is medicine in that thing, no? I could not administer anything to you while unconscious, so take it yourself."

The boy wanted to tell her that there was no point, but he hadn't the spirit to argue. He did what she said and unclasped the waterproof container that had once again done its job well enough. As he grasped the bottle of antipyretic he had stored at the very bottom, the realization struck him that she had retrieved it all from the lake. Despite the limited functionality of his right hand and the trembling of his left, he managed to take a sip without dropping the bottle.

Sealing the lid. Lowering the medicine into its container. Adjusting the clasps securely. He focused on the simplistic tasks as if they were meticulous challenges, so as to not leave his mind time to wander.

As each second passed, he became increasingly anxious about the moment when Kismet would finally ask about the cause of his current state. His thoughts raced, desperately searching for plausible explanations that were close enough to the truth to explain yet vague enough for him to articulate.

"You needn't say any more than you want," she said all of a sudden, and his head snapped up to catch sight of her melancholy smile. "And you may stay for as long as you like." With that, she slipped out of the cave, leaving the boy to ponder just how well she comprehended his inner turmoil. Whether she was broken too.

***

Kismet's gaze bore into him, yet he couldn't bring himself to take a bite. He had only just woken up from another long sleep half an hour ago, and every moment since had been excruciating. Each mundane task that he vaguely remembered performing without much thought before seemed like a bothersome chore.

Moving, eating, breathing. Why was he letting Kismet command him to not give up on them all? She left him no silence. No inaction. His gaze remained fixated on the raw fish in his lap. Despite Kismet's assurance that his torch had dried adequately for grilling, he couldn't find any justification for doing so. Grilled . . . raw . . . fish . . . food . . . It was all the same—unbearable.

"It won't be as dreadful once you take the first bite."

Tightening his jaw, he listlessly poked at the fish, tore off a chunk, and lifted it to his mouth, fighting the urge to retch. But Kismet's words rang true, and the more he consumed, the less difficult it became, if only slightly.

"How is your fever?"

The boy did not move as she approached. Instead of insisting on an answer, she leaned in and sniffed first his bandaged hand and then his face. "Your medicine seems to have done its job. It has gone down some."

Casting her a single, empty gaze, the boy slumped to the side until he lay on the floor. The coolness of the surface pressed against his cheek, which still retained a faint flush, and he shut his eye.

"Oh no, now is not the time for lying down," snarled Kismet at once, grabbing him by the collar. The boy could not struggle against her. "We have things to do. I will not permit your lethargic idling on your hide. Or have I ever?"

"I'm sick," the boy said in a weak attempt, yet Kismet could not be swayed.

"Even so, you can occupy yourself with something." She sat on her haunches and pulled something from a pocket on one of her broad leather belts.

Leaning against the wall, the boy felt his eye begin to flutter. But as soon as he gave in and closed it, he found himself back at the lake, where the water gently swayed around him, lulling him in . . . then it suddenly boiled. His jaw dropped, and his eye snapped back open. "Why did you . . ." He coughed. "Why are . . ."

The old tome Kismet had fetched fell into his lap. "I already told you." She stared at him with a narrowed eye. "Letting you quit would be a waste of the resources I have invested in you; dying is a form of quitting, so I cannot permit that either. It would be a waste for all of us."

"I don't—"

"You don't, but I do. That is all that matters." Her gaze became remarkably softer than he had ever seen it. "Your spirit is unyielding; so much I have learned. This means it will rekindle soon, and then you will thank me for saving your life. For now, I would like for you to take a look at this."

"Why?"

"Why not?" she retorted. "Or have you anything better to do? Lying idly does not count."

The boy's jaw tightened before his eye lowered to the old book resting in front of him. His hand hovered above it, then finally grazed its tattered cover. "Myths of Ancient Greece," he read slowly.

"I have been calling you all these names, and only after you left did I realize that I had never explained most of them to you. This one in particular." She sat before him and flipped through the pages until she reached the latter half of the tome.

When he cast his eye to the page, the boy's gaze was met with a colorful illustration of a boy and a man draped in ancient robes, standing in an enormous workshop. His left hand lifted, and a sudden flash of Teslas and the mysterious material Kismet had left in a corner crossed his mind—a sight that the nibbler would never witness now. The pain the thought carried was nothing remarkable—only another nail in his shredded heart. He barely felt the difference.

"As you see, it is not written in our language, yet I can tell you the story if you want," offered Kismet.

And indeed, when his eye found the text beside the picture, he discovered that he could not understand a word. Remaining silent, the boy kept his attention on the illustration, refusing to break his gaze.

"See, in the ancient Overland civilization named Greece once lived a wise man named Daedalus." Kismet's claw singled out the bearded, middle-aged man. "His ingenuity as an inventor earned him widespread acclaim throughout the continent. Finally, the king of the island nation of Crete approached him to design and build an inescapable labyrinth to imprison a fearsome monster that had been terrorizing his people."

As she flipped the page, the boy's eye found the man standing in front of an underground tunnel entrance, brandishing a detailed map of a complex maze. Yet his attention was captured by the portrayal of a brilliant light that emanated from above the man's head on a blue background. "Is that . . ." The boy's fingers grazed the fragile paper. "The sun?"

"Indeed." Kismet smiled. "If you desire, I can show you more illustrations of it later. Now, would you like to hear the rest of the story?"

The boy nodded.

"So he built the labyrinth," resumed Kismet, "and he swore to never share the secret to overcoming it with anyone. Yet when a brave hero named Theseus arrived to slay the monster and asked for his help, he broke his promise to ensure the creature's death."

The boy's eye grew large as she turned to the next page, revealing an illustration of a young man locked in mortal combat with a bizarre hybrid creature—part human, part bull.

"The hero slew the beast and liberated Crete, yet the king became infuriated with Daedalus, for he had broken his promise. So he confined Daedalus and his son . . . Icarus in the very same labyrinth."

Icarus. The name had once meant something, thought the boy. It had once been . . . Had it been his?

Before he could ponder it, Kismet revealed another illustration that showed the two men: the middle-aged Daedalus and a young man, approximately the same age as him, within an underground chamber. There was only one opening—a gaping hole in the ceiling.

"They lowered their sustenance through there," Kismet explained. "Yet of course, Daedalus couldn't bear the thought of spending the rest of his life imprisoned, so he meticulously crafted two sets of wings from the feathers of birds that flew by—one for himself and one for his son."

Before the boy could ask what a bird was—or a feather—Kismet turned another page, and his jaw dropped. His fingers shook with apprehension as he brushed the image showing a pair of radiant golden wings draped on a rack of some kind; they bore no resemblance to those of a flier. He squinted, feeling a lump develop in his throat. To fly out of . . . He swallowed. To fly . . .

"Daedalus glued the wings together with candle wax and announced to Icarus that they could use them to fly into freedom. And the wings functioned flawlessly, just as planned."

"Wait—" But he was not fast enough to prevent her from turning the page. And so, his gaze met the dazzling image of the two men donning the wings, surrounded by the odd blue and bathed in brilliant sunlight. His mouth fell open in silent protest as he instinctively recoiled until his back made contact with the wall. However, try as he might, he couldn't tear his eye away. To fly . . .

"While his invention was a success," Kismet carried on, "he had advised his son to refrain from flying too close to the water, as the drops could cause the wax on his wings to dissolve, and also warned him not to fly too close to the sun. It is hot, you know? "It will melt the wax, and you will plummet to your death," he said."

The boy's eye was locked on the image, unable to break free. He wanted to tell her to stop; he had no willingness to hear any more. Not this.

To fly. To . . . His arm shot up and his lip trembled. To fly . . . Memories of the sensation surged back, crashing into him like a relentless torrent, leaving him to gasp and struggle for air.

"Henry?"

His head shot up, and for a heartbeat, he stared at Kismet with a look of panic before jumping to his feet. Kismet was so surprised that she barely caught the book that had slipped from his lap.

The boy stormed out of the cave, his mind consumed by anguish. He paid little attention to where he was headed; his head spun and the ground beneath him swayed as he braced himself against the wall, on the verge of passing out.

Yet it was nothing compared to the blinding agony that had breached the walls of numbness guarding his heart. Like an ulcer that had nestled in his stomach and wouldn't stop expanding, reaching and burrowing its ugly fingers into every nook and cell of his body. It was crawling up his throat like a thick, sluggish worm, then it tightened around his neck; he gagged.

He had to get out. The thought hammered in his head as he stumbled ahead; his barely functional echolocation flared erratically, in rhythm with his galloping, wailing heart. They would . . . fly together.

The boy gasped.

He was not . . . here. Why was he not here?

Despite his condition, he felt himself pick up speed. Where . . . was . . . "Death," the boy rasped. Be here, his mind screamed. His uninjured hand found the cool wall, and his forehead sank against it. He was here . . . He had to be here . . . He was needed. Needed here so much more desperately than anywhere else.

"Henry?"

When a voice behind him called, he jerked away from the wall. No . . . This was not the voice he searched for. He knew the voice, yet it was not the voice he wanted. Not the voice he . . .

The lake—it hit him. The lake. He had to get back to the lake. He had been there, at the lake. The pinchers had seen him. They had seen him, so he would be there. By this point, the boy knew the way so well that he barely paid attention to where he stepped. All else he shut out. The cacophony of screaming sounds and the voice that called and called again.

No . . . but he had to run. To escape. Something was after him . . . it had to be. His echolocation showed nothing, but the boy knew better. And if it got to him before he got to the lake, he would have failed.

He stumbled. The sounds . . . they chased him, assaulted him from all sides. They slithered through the walls, the floor, the air; every inch of space around him was theirs. And they were after him . . . they would . . . The boy released a trembling breath. They wouldn't get him; they couldn't get him. Not before the lake.

The lake. It burned before his inner eye, flaring like a beacon, a goal, an elusive safe haven from the torrent inside his head. The prospect of it made the agony bearable. I will fly. He opened his mouth to scream it out, yet no sound escaped him. He craved to fly with an intensity unlike any he had ever felt.

If only he could . . .

As soon as he perceived the first outskirt of an orange glow, his pace quickened until he ran, shakily yet undauntedly, toward his haven. It was there, and with it there would be his flier, to assure all was well. To carry him far from here, to safety. To carry him . . . home.

When he at last staggered out into the wide cave and took in the lake, the waterfall, and the ghastly patterns the glowing water threw on the walls, he stopped for the first time.

The boy blinked, looking again. To see if he had been wrong or if he had missed something. He staggered forward and tore his mouth open for a hoarse cry . . . The cave was empty.

He sensed warm water against his ankles and realized he had not stopped walking. The boy stared at the waterfall ahead, then his legs failed him, and he sank to his knees. When, an agonizing moment later, a paw brushed his back, his body already quivered with desperate sobs.

He had no idea how long he had been kneeling there, weeping unlike he had ever wept. Just this once, he felt no shame. Not one ounce. He thought he should, but he was not even strong enough to reprimand himself.

He only looked up when Kismet spoke: "He . . . became too reckless."

The boy could do nothing but stare at her with a swollen, sunken eye.

"Icarus," Kismet whispered, "he rose higher and higher until the heat of the sun dissolved the wax of his wings and he plummeted into the sea, to his death."

Blood trickled from the boy's cracked lips when he parted them. "I also flew too high," he pressed out, "and I didn't learn. I was flying too recklessly, and I fell, and . . . I cannot swim."