Iknowit’scrooked.Butit’stheonlygameintown.

           —CANADABILLJONES

           Thetreewasgone,andtheworldwasgone,andthemorning-grayskyabovehimwasgone.Theskywasnowthecolorofmidnight.Therewasasinglecoldstarshininghighabovehim,ablazing,twinklinglight,andnothingelse.Hetookasinglestepandalmosttripped.

           Shadowlookeddown.Therewerestepscutintotherock,goingdown,stepssohugethathecouldonlyimaginethatgiantshadcutthemanddescendedthemalongtimeago.

           Heclambereddownward,halfjumping,halfvaultingfromsteptostep.Hisbodyached,butitwastheacheoflackofuse,notthetorturedacheofabodythathashungonatreeuntilitwasdead.

           Heobserved,withoutsurprise,thathewasnowfullydressed,injeansandawhiteT-shirt.Hewasbarefoot.Heexperiencedaprofoundmomentofdéjàvu:thiswaswhathehadbeenwearingwhenhestoodinCzernobog’sapartmentthenightwhenZoryaPolunochnayahadcometohimandtoldhimabouttheconstellationcalledOdin’sWain.Shehadtakenthemoondownfromtheskyforhim.

           Heknew,suddenly,whatwouldhappennext.ZoryaPolunochnayawouldbethere.

           Shewaswaitingforhimatthebottomofthesteps.Therewasnomooninthesky,butshewasbathedinmoonlightnonetheless:herwhitehairwasmoon-pale,andsheworethesamelace-and-linennightdressshehadwornthatnightinChicago.