William takes it—sort of, the thing pinned under his arm before he can register what it is. Lightning rips up the sky, and in the breath before the thunder comes he grips the cane. He doesn't go. A disbelieving laugh lodges in his chest, heavy. He says, “Is this a fucking decoration?”

Because if it's not, how can he leave? And how can he stay, knowing it's him the shadows are after?

He wipes the hair from his eyes and the world rumbles and the sky's like that black paper you'd scratch with a fingernail: a ribbon of colors underneath. It's like a girl he knew once, swinging her feet as she blazed with light. It hurts to watch, in a way he doesn't particularly care to understand.

They can't stand here, he reminds himself. “Save it,” he says, raising his voice to compete with the wind. The shadows knit themselves together, taking shape again. He turns but—again—doesn't run.