Indrá went on to grab a pork loin and taters then queued to pay the woman out front. After a while she scanned and passed each purchase into a paper bag.

"How's your day been?" said the woman.

Indrá paid the coppers owed much as the hollow tact seen at every counter. "Good. And you?"

She seemed not to hear over the money drawer's pop. Coins clinked and clamored then she said, "All set. You have a good night," and waved the next in line.

"You too." Indrá took his bag and left. The over-loud man was still on his crate. He cried and cried his portents to the cold and weary. An old man had stopped to listen and nod and pray to a holy someone.

"Take heed, brothers n' sisters!" said the man as his arms bore the heavens. "Spells n' the like are God's fury made man. Rains of fire n' winds that cut—what else could they be but fury almighty?"

"What else but fury!" said the old man watching.

"Words n' prayers make the Lord's love. The holy texts ain't need magic to move the hearts o' men!"

"Preach it!"

A sermon of love fueled by hate? thought Indrá, soon too far to hear. Or the opposite? He shrugged and hiked the damning snow. He'd left the shops behind and the warrens were now beside him. An alley a block in front, another and he'd be home.

He walked the alley's left and peered the darkness to his right. Something heavy struck his flank and stole his breath and knocked him forward. He fumbled for the crimson saucer in his coat. It whirred, shot back at empty air. A grip seized his throat. His legs dangled and ragged brick cleaved his back.

"You let him die!" said a blur that choked him yet.

Indrá made out a mop of rugged hair over wild eyes and an unkempt beard. A blitz of pain to his cheek. A ringing in his ear.

"Promise! Promise you'll do what I've done to the next of us who fails him!"

"Who?" said Indrá, his cry but a gurgle.

"The father that raised you! Taught you! Loved you!" Flares of pain spiked his ribcage. "Fix this! Why can't you save him when he saved you? Why!"

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Indrá couldn't breathe. "How?" His lips formed silence but to his attacker it seemed there could be no louder.

"You think I can tell you?" A peal of manic laughter. "You think I can do anything!?" The blur reached into their chest and bared an azure orb. Blood trickled from clawed fingers to snow-thatched ground. "Take it! Just ... take it." They pushed the orb into Indrá's chest.

Indrá felt his heart burn. An iron grip muffled his screams, his cries.

"Time!"—another peal—"You can have me now! Isn't this what you wanted? It's his turn to suffer. Not mine. His."

White light blinded Indrá. He fell on knees that wouldn't hold him and so he fell once more. He was alone and heaving and everything hurt, his heart most of all.

For a while Indrá lay there broke of thought and feeling. Tears spilled and tremors wracked but he was empty like the night sky above and no less mute.

At last the burn at his breast flagged and he buried his face in his hands. He wiped back and forth until he felt clean then struggled to his feet and limped to his fallen paper bag at the alley entrance.

No souls marred his hobble home and soon he gripped the shop's door but couldn't find the strength to open it. His breath hitched as he fell into the stranger's choke again. He flinched at their strikes, cringed at their shouts.

"Indrá! Indrá!"

Indrá awoke convulsing on the ground. His father's face seemed a pale mask whose mouth hung open as if forgotten by its owner. When their eyes met, Mōden scooped Indrá's neck and legs and rushed him into the shop.

"Indrá, are you okay? What happened?" said Mōden. His long strides brought them past the counter and into the workshop.

Indrá stared at his father. His lips trembled. "My bag," he said, "the Vanilon—"

"Forget the bag! I need to know if you're okay!" Mōden cradled Indrá in one arm and rifled through a pile at his desk. Clanks and clatters echoed. He stopped upon finding a red and white case from which he pulled a vial of green liquid. Its cork came loose and it was held to Indrá's lips. "Drink."

Indrá did as he was told. A minty bitterness like grapefruit toothpaste made him hack but his father kept pouring. Airy bliss took away Indrá's hurt and he grinned toothily at his father. "I'm fine. How are you?"

Mōden's eyes were red. He tried to smile but his frown resisted so he hid it with a hand. "Me too." He stroked his son's hair. "Me too."

"Are you sure? You look sad."

"I'm sure and I'm happy."

"Okay! I believe you, Dad." Indrá hugged Mōden and then skipped to the storefront. "I hope you're hungry! I got us pork and taters for dinner." He ran back with a paper bag nestled in his arms. "Oh! I got you Vanilon. You like diet, right?" Indrá dug out a can and offered it to his father.

"I do." Mōden took the Vanilon with the hand that'd covered his mouth and said, "Thank you, Indrá."

Indrá giggled. "Dad, you're smiling! I guess you really are happy."

"Of course I am! When you're happy, I'm happy."

"Then, when I'm hungry, are you hungry?" Indrá waved the pork and taters.

"No." Mōden snatched the food and marched to the stovetop. Sparks tick-tick-ticked and then flames licked the bottom of a pan. "When you're hungry, I'm hungrier!"

Sizzle!