Anzu rubs the bridge of his nose; he suddenly looks old and tired, and more than a little lost.

"Thou'rt right, sweetness, of course," he says, and gives a sad smile. "But magic, magic is as carbolic soap at best. Or those hideous celluloid balls they use to collapse tubercular lungs. A tool. What the two of us hope for here is a nes. A miracle. But miracles are thin on the ground, and often mere wistful thinking."

And privately, he thinks to himself how young Radar is, and how unfair it is that a kid like that has to learn about the unfairness of the world through the army, and through a place like the Isle — a place that feels, more than anything, stillborn. Or at least, not yet breathing, and turning blue.