Tavin’s eyes cracked open in the morning light. He was absolutely drained. He forced his heavy head to turn, taking it from its comfortable resting place on his pillow. He held up his right hand and stared at his thumb, baked in nearly horizontal dust-lit sunbeams. He turned it over and over.

Tavin rotated his thumb around and clenched his fist a few times. He must have sliced it open over half a dozen times the day before, and it looked and felt like it had never happened. With ...