I squeeze my eyes tight as the fire roars in front of me, and let myself imagine everything good I've got waiting ahead of me.

Rum. Whores. Snooker. Cubans.

But the sound of the baby crying melts the good times right away.

Diapers. Milk. Rocking. Burping.

I've only had a single day of fatherhood thrust upon me -- but it's already more than enough.

Whoever had led me to the baby had been kind enough to provide a second bag for me to carry back. A little zipped-up satchel, insulated with silver foil. Basic baby supplies inside: bottles of milk, a pink-striped onesie (that she's now wearing), a blue striped-onesie (as if whoever packed it wasn't even sure about her gender), a towel, and noticeably, not one fucking pacifier.

Rum. Whores.

Rocking. Burping.

"What is it now? You want milk?"

I get up, grab a bottle, and jab it into her mouth -- but she pulls her head back and wails.

"Fine," I shout over her cryin'. "Go hungry. Think I care? Cause I got meat here, and I got teeth, and I ain't going hungry myself."

My legs are burning and my ribs screaming. Lugging one huge bag had been bad enough, but a day's trek with a baby in my arms, propped up against my shoulder, and an extra bag hanging off my rucksack, and I'm all but ready to lay down and never get up again.

The thick mist followed us for a while, but it started to ease up a little as we walked. As I walked, that is -- and she kicked at my ribs and wailed in my ears.

And all the while, that electric feeling in the air had been intensifying. Becoming more violent. Her skin against mine would send out sporadic shocks like static; little jolts of air that would singe and smoke me.

And my own skin... That was changing, too, since I'd found her. The yellow that it had been turning, was now darkening, becoming brown... a burnt-orange and... it was starting to look like the leaves on the dead trees.

If you let them take her, she'll die.

That scrawled note in the dirt was meant for me, I'm sure of it. Someone knew that I would be sent into the poisoned zone. Knew that I'd find the child and see their message. Then, there had been the two beaks: one hung by my tent, the other by her side.

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No doubt about it. I was meant to find her.

If you let them take her, she'll die.

If I let who take her? Right now, as her wailing thumps away at my tired brain, I'm willing to let anyone have her, just as long as I get some peace.

I really didn't appreciate the journey into the forest enough. Heck, the elk was almost better company.

If you let them take her, she'll die.

Does it mean... Nah, can't mean the bureau. Half the reason they exist it to find Storm Borns. To recruit them and train them and--

"How are you getting louder?!" I say to her, angrier than I'm proud of.

She stops crying for a moment, but it's only from surprise, as she's ballin' as loud as ever again straight after.

I let out a long breath, then pick her up and rock her against my shoulder. "Okay, shh, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have yelled. I'm just not used to this, you know?" I tap her head gently, her short quiff of blonde hair. "Usually there are a whole damn host of specialists to look after Storm Borns like you. Or else, a mother to look after a baby. And I'm not neither."

I think back to my own childhood, trying to remember nursery-rhymes used to lull me. But my childhood was cold and clinical and I didn't get much of that stuff.

"Hush little baby don't you cry, Sammy gonna sing you a lullaby. La la la, la dadada, Sammy gonna sing you a lulla-byy."

She's still crying, but maybe not as loud. I put her back down next to the tent flap and grab the bottle of milk again. It's cold, and I remember something about babies liking it warm, so I hold it above the fire for a little. High above it, so my hand doesn't burn too bad.

There had been no marble in the second beak, but it had burned up just as well as the first.

If you let them take her, she'll die.

No. She might have a life like mine... Might not know many nursery-rhymes by the time she's my age, but that's the worst that will happen. Heck, best place for her is with them. So, does the message mean someone else is going to try to take her?

I eye the trees uneasily, but there's nothing much to see. Just the same shrubs and shadows and rotting land as I've had stare at me the last handful of days.

The plastic bottle feels warm against my face. Not too hot, I don't think. But I also don't know for sure.

The baby sucks at the milk all the same, and I find I'm actually kinda proud of myself. First time in years, maybe, that I've felt like this.

"So what do you do?" I ask her. "You create these clouds, or were you just born in them? You the one bringing dead animals back into the world? Cause that's a pretty morbid gift to have."

She drinks the milk, content, her blue eyes wandering up to mine, then back down to the bottle.

"Who's been looking after you, huh? Huh? Answer me! You're gonna give me a name or you're gonna face my wrath. Understand??"

I find myself tickling her and she's laughing and spitting out milk, then I'm laughing too. And I'm wonderin' if maybe me and Susie had argued about nothin' all that time ago.

Then, a deafening explosion.

Somewhere north of here. Fire and smoke tangle together and stream high into the sky, bright and thick enough to see even through the fog.

The baby is crying again. She's scared, and I guess I am too, but I take her and rock her, and eventually, she's quiet and I'm just standing and watching something distant burning away.

It's not the direction I'm going, so I feel good about that.

But it's the way I had been going. Somewhere pretty near where I'd just been.

Where she'd just been.