And Peter did, responding to her prompts to the best of his ability, encouraged by the steady hiss and scratch of charcoal against paper. When she was done, Sara held up the page and Peter felt spicules of ice sprout in the flesh of his thighs. What she’d drawn was exactly what he’d seen: a negative, a ragged sculpture in two dimensions, dark against dark. “I’m sorry, Peter,” she said, misreading his reaction. “No,” Peter said. “That’s it. That’s exactly what I saw.”
