I attracted a few curious looks and deferential gestures as I approached the city. I must have appeared important, with a Cat walking behind me. I returned the greetings.

Sing the storm clouds, sing them in,

There will be food on our tables,

There will be food in our stores,

The Eater’s grace upon us.

The day-end song was familiar and mindless. My mother had told me that the lyrics were altered seventy years ago. I’m not sure how she knew of the original, but she liked to collect odd information like that. In my head, I recited the older version.

Call your children, call them in,

There will be blood in the fields,

There will be blood on our hands,

It will not be ours.

I circled around the side of the silo and leaned against the wall. Claws yawned and stretched. He lay down, flapping his ears to fan himself. The workers were returning their tools to the equipment store; they talked loudly and occasionally laughed. I scanned their faces.

“Hey.”

I turned.

All the visions threatening to emerge from the shadows of the silos bled away. The tension inside my chest eased.

“Good evening, Finn.”

“‘Good evening,’ El. Feeling formal today?”

Finn was tall and wiry, with messy shoulder-length hair and a wide smile. He carried himself with a disarming confidence, propping a dusty pitchfork across his shoulders as he walked over to me.

“Sorry.” I shook my head. “I’m all over the place.”

“Don’t apologize. What’s with the Cat?”

Claws eyed Finn suspiciously and yawned again, cracking his jaw. His long teeth gleamed.

“That would be Claws. Reverend Cyde of the Moon House had a report for the Council.” I lifted my bag. “I volunteered to deliver it.”

Finn checked if anyone was close enough to overhear us, and lowered his voice.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Now? Yes.”

“Good, because I was worried out of my mind.” He glanced toward the queue of workers clocking in with the shift supervisor. “Can I walk you to the Council Building?”

“Sure, if you want to.”

“I do.” He smiled. “Let me just sign off on this shift.”

With my visions banished, I allowed myself to relax a little. Finn had been my best friend since I was seven, and was one of the few people I trusted completely. In his company, I felt stable, secure in myself, which seemed key to suppressing the visions. I watched as he joined the queue of workers, cracking a joke that caused the people around him to groan. These days, he was doing well. I was glad to see him happy, even if it left me feeling a little lonely.

The breeze shivered across the pale gold fields, brushing the shadows of the city wall. I rubbed my arms. Hopefully, delivering the report would not take too long.

Finn returned, stretching his arms overhead.

“I’ve discovered that I am not cut out for farming,” he said with a grimace. “Or hard labour, generally.”