The shadows under the canopy swaddle the sun until it smothers. Night comes on fast and strong, and there aren’t stars because the leaves blot them out. Somehow that’s fine. The wind goes sighing through the branches of the forest this dead city’s become, rasping and rustling, and the music of it’s so rare and sibilant and full that Marceline takes out her hand harp. They haven’t built a fire—for all they know the mold’s flammable and might light the whole building up like an executive dynamo if put to a spark—but their eyes are doing okay, they’ve adjusted. Marceline tunes the strings and Bonnibel squints at her. The mutant’s been quiet a long time, looking out the window but not really seeing. Now she attends.
“Is that really a good idea?” she says. “The noise might attract things.”