“I used to have this dream when I was little,” Tig said dreamily. Tig who was still, who would always be, little. “About trying to carry water. I was supposed to get it from here to over there, or something bad would happen. You or Dad or somebody might die. I didn’t have a bucket or anything, just my arms. I kept scooping up water like a bundle of sticks, and of course it would all just run out.”
