I direct my flashlight—and Little One along with it—at a piece of paper on the grass. She pecks at it, and it bursts into small flames. I direct her up into the air, and watch her fly, quick and sure, darting in and out around trees, diving and soaring. I point her at a chair that’s been tossed out of my house, and she flies right at it, takes one little peck at its leg, and the leg breaks in half.

“She’s, like, a barreling bluebird of destruction,” Germ says, impressed. “Do you think she’ll be enough… if the Memory Thief comes for you?”

“I don’t know,” I say.

I think we’re all wondering, not if but when. I hate the thought of always hiding, always waiting for the Memory Thief to appear.

“I wish we could find her first instead,” I say. She is the only witch, it seems from what I’ve learned, that might be reachable somewhere in the world.

As I ruminate on this, something happens to Little One. Fluttering up toward a tree branch, she begins to fade, and suddenly blinks out.

I shake the flashlight, but nothing happens.

And then I realize. “Batteries.”

As Germ and I search the kitchen for more, I think about something the cloud shepherd said.

“A witch weapon is limited only by the boundaries of your own heart,” I say to Fred in my pocket, sardonically. Your own heart, and battery life, I guess.

It takes the wind out of my sails. My weapon is a dinky little plastic flashlight that cost three dollars, and it’s useless without batteries. Little One may be able to crunch on chairs and paper and moths, but a witch is a much bigger thing. What if Little One’s not strong enough? She seems pretty ferocious, but she’s also tiny. As much as I hate to admit it, it’s still hard to think she could be any match for a witch.

I turn the flashlight beam on again once the new batteries are in. Little One appears perched on a chair, looking at me inquisitively. I walk outside again, to where Ebb is waiting, looking thoughtful.

As she flutters up toward a tree, something draws Little One’s attention toward the woods. Suddenly she’s executing a thrilling dive through the air—barreling across the distance faster than I’ve ever seen anything move. I see, just before she reaches her target, what she’s going for: it’s a memory moth, floating out of the edge of the woods, probably looking for me. Whatever the reason, Little One swoops down on it like a dive-bomber. Though it’s almost as big as she is, she snatches it out of the air and eats it in one gulp, chomping with bright-eyed satisfaction, tilting her head this way and that as if to savor the flavor.