Color bursts behind my eyelids as if the bones have been waiting for me. I understand now why the intensifiers were a temptation on my other path. I underestimated the thrill of using them—the crisp clarity, the way the vision is vibrant and alive. It’s unlike any reading I’ve ever done.

I hover—birdlike—over an array of paths fanned out in front of me like the branches of a giant tree. None of them are brighter than the others. It’s as if this bone represents small choices instead of large ones. What was Latham looking for?

I choose a path at random and begin to explore.

Suddenly I’m watching Latham as a young boy of perhaps seven or eight. I’m not sure how I recognize that it’s him, but the knowledge burrows inside me as certain as my own name. He perches on a windowsill, small hands pressed against the glass, waiting. His body vibrates with anticipation. When he sees his father coming up the path, uncomplicated joy leaps in his chest. He runs to the front door and throws it open, flinging himself into his father’s arms.

“Papa!”

Latham’s father chuckles and scoops his son off the floor. “How’s my little mouse?”

“I’m not little,” Latham says, attempting a pout, but unable to keep a smile from teasing at the corners of his mouth.

“Ah, then what shall we call you? ‘Big mouse’ doesn’t sound quite right. Maybe ‘my rat’?”

“Ew, no!”

Latham’s father sets him back down and ruffles his hair. “Then I guess you’re stuck with ‘mouse,’ little mouse.”

Latham’s father takes off his cloak and hangs it near the door. Latham follows him into the kitchen, where he plants a kiss on his wife’s forehead. Latham covers his eyes, and both his parents laugh.

“So what did you do today, Papa?”

“Council work. Mostly making lots of important decisions.”

“Like what?”

“Well, we voted on a new member of the Grand Council.”

“Who did you vote for?”

“A Bone Mason named Jonas.”

“Did he win?”

“Yes, he did. By just one vote.”

Latham’s father dips a spoon in the pot bubbling over the stove and brings it to his lips, blowing gently before taking a bite.

“When I grow up, I’m going to be on the Grand Council so I can make lots of important decisions.”

“That’s wonderful,” his father says.

I can’t tell if he’s responding to the sauce, or to his son. And before I can find out, the path abruptly comes to an end.

I choose another path. It begins identically, with Latham at the window, eagerly awaiting his father’s return. But here, his father comes home in a foul mood. He doesn’t call his son “little mouse.” He brushes off his boy’s questions.

“Are you mad at me, Papa?”