“Zora is dying,” said Baki. The sunset dripped like molten copper on the horizon, and the distant towers—shapedfrom silicon and dreams reflected its glow like broken mirrors. Among tall grass and twisted antennas, Baki’s voice carried no bitterness, only age. “I know, Grandpa,” replied the girl. Her long hair, colored like the dawn, moved softly in the evening breeze—waves over a sleeping lake. She was called Sleepy, though her eyes were wide awake. They held the end of the world inside, and ...