Evening settles over Diamond Lake beneath clouds the color of old iron.
Miners spill out into the streets.
Vendors shout over one another.
Somewhere nearby somebody is losing badly at dice and blaming everyone except himself.
For perhaps fifteen remarkable minutes, Diamond Lake feels almost normal.
Then an old miner walking past you stops.
His beer slips from his hand.
He points across the street.
“That's him.”
Beneath a lantern stands Oswin.
He isn't approaching.
He isn't waving.
He's watching you.
Then he realizes you've noticed him.
And walks into the crowd.
What do you do?
