From pool, to worms, to birds. The light transfers to each one who eats it. Father… It couldn’t… It couldn’t be that simple, could it? He scrambled for the jar of worm paste, which he’d secured to its spot before turning in. He wrenched it out, the glow lighting his hand, making his fingers ruddily transparent. The birds squawked at his sudden motion. He dipped a finger in, then—bracing himself—ate the paste. The flavor was foul, of course. He forced it down with some fresh water, then waited. Long enough that he felt foolish. Was he going mad? Dining on mashed-up worms, used as a stain for
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