They return to the tram.

  The queen walks through the door with her chin held high, one eye bruised closed, the other alight with newfound confidence. There's something else too. Something entirely new to her gait and her gaze, traces found only in the pink hue still clinging to her cheekbones.

  The soldier follows closely behind her, passing Ricket a curious glance before nodding his approval and pride. The children have been cleaned; the two treated are already bundled up, one feigning sleep, the other sincere.

  Sen peers at their entry through one thinly narrowed eye, apprehensive about the return of the doctor. Rivin too casts Roach a weary look, but the girl doesn't fracture, doesn't bend — merely waltzes up confidently to the Skylander and retakes her seat on the carpet-stamped stool.

  He squeezes his eye closed again, tries to look gone, but the girl clears her throat and says to him sincerely.

  “I'm sorry you were taken.”

  Not a peep.

  “I'm sorry I went dark.”

  She can see the hearth of his iris, honey brown like it was stewed in the sun. His freckles —darker than hers— more inked into the skin, and scattered lightly over shoulders still shiny from their boil.

  “I want to help you.” She smiles, small and quiet, tilting her head. “You come from a place that I—” her breath hitches. “—I dream about.”

  “You want to devour it.” Both eyes are slits now, but not to hide; no, nothing can hide the hesitation in Sen’s glare, the caution.

  She sucks in a breath before she answers, rubbing her palms against her thighs, her voice almost shameful, lacking all grandeur, madness or lies.

  “I want to exist.” She says. “I want to…” Her head drops down, eyes fixed to the tile between them. “I want to see the sun.” A choppy breath follows. “When it all boils down to it—”

  Rivin clears his throat. “Roach—”

  “Huh?” She grows still before spitting out a crude snort of laughter. Rivin hisses a scolding, his eyes sharper than any blow, and she holds up her hands in defense. “Sorry, sorry—” She tries to compose herself, wiping a tear.

  Sen is glaring.

  “I just—… I'm sorry.”

  She tries on a more empathetic expression and it fits much better, although her cheeks are still rosy and her face still aglow when she holds a hand to her heart to say:

  “I want to see the sun, Sen.

  I want to be a girl who sees the sun.

  I want to be warm.

  I want to hear a morning song.

  I want to see a horizon.

  Clouds.

  I want to smell the rain.

  To know what wind carries.

  I want to see the stars.

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  The moon.

  The strange little dance that they do.

  I want to exist.

  It's nothing more than this.

  I want to see the sun, Sen.”

  The boy doesn't answer right away, instead eyeing her slowly, studying her face. From the back, a small voice bleeds into the quiet.

  “I want to see the clouds too.” Abi sounds hoarse and high, like a music box neglected but still beautiful, still singing out through the rust.

  “I want to see horses, big ones, dressed up for war.” Coel is awake, sheepish in his confession, blankets pulled up towards his ears.

  Ricket leans forward, smiling broadly. “I want to see mountains!”

  “Rivers!”

  “Daisies!”

  “Landslides!”

  “Tornados!”

  Roach isn’t the only one beaming now—many faces are— but her gaze flicks to Rivin whose arms are crossed over his chest, he looks to be more moon than sun; still, there is light, pale but effervescent. He raises a brow, turns up his nose, but mutters quietly:

  “A storm”.

  Her grin grows, so too does that strange little hue on her cheeks.

  “A rainbow!” Abi giggles.

  Monet, by her side, remains weary, pupils switching swiftly between them. Abi has her hand and squeezes her fingers gently, the girl cowers but her lips form the sound. “The ocean.”

  All pause to linger, to imagine.

  Frothy waves. Salty air. Sandy beaches golden or white.

  Meanwhile, Sen continues to observe them all — these strange underground children, all taken with thoughts of a world beneath the sky. When they return to the doctor, she is already watching him, her face not some twisted sweating mask but rather soft and patient.

  “I'll help you get back there.”

  It's a promise spoken so sincerely, he urges himself to doubt it. Just as cautious is he to ask:

  “What if I don't want your help?”

  She appears to consider it a moment, before replying, “That's okay too,” but she flashes a smirk. “But I'd bet against you.”

  The boy almost responds in kind, with just the slightest curl of chapped, hurt lips, before it vanishes completely. He glances between them all again, these children of the deep, the moles beneath The Halidom, and sees a stark resemblance in each and every face.

  Burning there, like a ball of fire in the sky, bright as day and blaring at the centre, is hope, everlasting, in children who dream it so.

  Hungry are they, greedy are they — … for life.

  He almost can't bear it.

  It's blinding.

  He looks away.

  Once all is said and done, the Queen resumes her role as medic, coaxing Ricket closer to observe, and while she shows him how to thread the needle, she doesn't let him wield it. Rivin feels proud again.

  She tends to Abì next, the youngest. Roach strokes her knuckles, fussing over her quietly. “You would have loved Stubby, she was always more partial to us girls,” she winks.

  As she works, she talks on and on about her cat and its misadventures, its fifteen different scars and their associated stories.

  Stubby fighting off a creature.

  “Huge teeth and a big ugly nose! She clawed out his eyes!”

  Stubby discovering a nest of Pitton pups.

  “I had to wrangle her away; she loves messing with the youngsters.”

  Stubby escaping a fire.

  “Her tail was ablaze! She streaked through the night like a star. I made a wish. It stayed true for a while.”

  Abi looks sleepy by the end of it, sucking on her thumb, eyes droopy and content, free hand still locked with Monet’s, until Roach untangles them, assessing the damage to the Drowner child’s flesh. Unlike the others, her hair has been shaved to the scalp, with chunks of flesh missing, nicked away by blade teeth.

  The fine webbing between each of her toes has been severed and mostly burned away. Roach cups each foot gently, studies the damage up close. She pulls away only to nod her intention, her determination. “I'll fix this. I promise.”

  Monet watches, not quite unsure, but certainly hesitant. Then inhales sharply and breathes it out again through her nose, rubbing her hand over her heart in small circles. “Thank you.”

  Roach tilts her head, curious, before she mimics the gesture. “You're welcome.”

  The girl bites back a smile. Tired. Amused. “Like this…” She demonstrates, inhaling slowly before touching her knuckles to her lips, then her heart before moving outward, fingers splaying just as she releases the breath.

  Roach copies. Monet shows her once more.

  The Queen smiles, impressed. “That's you're welcome?”

  She shakes her head. “It means I promise you.”

  Silence settles.

  Roach draws a deep breath, touches her lips, her heart, the air, and breathes out. “I promise you, Monet.”

  The small child takes the doctor’s hands in her own, pressing their closed fists to the racing, hopeful beat beneath her flesh. Her eyes are welling again, like they had when she reached for home — so many children reach for home.

  Thumpthump.

  Thumpthump.

  Gently, and with tears in her throat, the girl whispers, “I hope you make it.” She swallows. “To the sun.”

  The Queen’s eyes flash, her lips catch a curl. She squeezes their fingers together. There's no hesitation when she answers, no doubt, because...

  “I will.”