Hard work.
Seamless joinery takes time and effort, and let’s face it, though we are meticulous the girl and I are novices when it comes to construction. We are serious in our work, though, and we’ve accomplished much more than we expected: four risers and treads, a newel, and two passageways.

We build from the heart, she says to me when I sigh and wipe my brow, energy flagging. I like that, and take two colas out of one of the secret compartments in the first secret passageway we built.
We climb up and out (it is now a longer trip) to sit on the grass while it’s still bright outside.

The girl drinks mightily, and in no time she is blowing hollow tunes across the top of her bottle. I laugh, lie back on the grass, recork my bottle and balance it on my forehead. I’m still hot and damp, and the wet glass feels pleasantly cool.
Then something happens.

I hear words again, but this time they are clearer. They’re not voices. These are the same words as before, the quicksilver words, the ones that disintegrated. I am sure of it. The girl hears too, but she is puzzled. She furrows her brow, sits straighter. She traces the letters of what she hears into her palm. She says: PIE TOWN.

I know what it means, I say.

This is Day Thirteen.