Crier took Ayla’s hand and placed it on her sternum. Right above her heart. She could feel the thud of it—Made, but no less real than her own. “I have a heart, like you,” she breathed, and again her eyes searched Ayla’s face, and Ayla heard her own heartbeat so loud in her ears, like the drums from the cave, like the night she’d led Crier out onto the black rocky beach and begged for the end of her story.
