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“That is… I need to ensure the dosage is correct.” Beads of sweat emerged over his brow.

“They’re all the same,” I said then. “Aren’t they?”

I had the sudden, vicious desire to hear him say it. To contradict me out loud. Then I could point and scream red-faced to everyone in the hall that they were, each of them, liars.

And then I’d return to Scurry, and nothing would change.

The administer cleared his throat, shot a furtive look at the high-heeled woman. “Yes. Well… if you please,” he said ruefully.

I swallowed back the bile climbing up from my insides. I had the sense that I was doing something catastrophic. But there was that teeming ocean in my mind, swelling and crashing in color and sound and a constant desire to seek, and I pulled the cork out. I wasn’t going home.

I tipped the vial to my lips and drank it all.

Then I waited.

The dilution tasted of metal against my tongue. It was oily. Cold. It slipped down my throat reluctantly, clinging to the sides.

At first, there was nothing. A small tingling in my chest, maybe. A clenching of my stomach.

Then, there was everything.

I felt dust particles touch my cheeks as they fell. Light rays that separated into singular photons and pierced the air, pierced my skin. I felt every mechanism of my body at once, in perfect harmony. And the color.

Color bloomed everywhere. It deepened and lightened and shone. I could dissect the minute differences of blues in the canvas painted into oceans on the far wall. I could hear music in the city sounds and the way they were interwoven.

I felt how easy it would be for my hands to mimiclife: on parchment, on walls, in stone and wood and dirt.

I felt, for a sheer fleeting moment, absolutely, incontestably filled with answers.

And then the feeling was gone.

I shuddered. Blinked.

“Hold each one in your hand,” said the administer, pushing forward a small wooden box with a brass clasp. He ran a finger down his list of names without further regard, clearly ignorant that the person before him had just been irrevocably morphed by something holy.

My breaths rattled. I could hear nothing else as I reached forward. I had the sudden impression that it would sting to hold anything against my skin.

The official sighed and looked up at me impatiently. “Go on,” he ushered.

I swallowed. My fingers neared the box.

Nothing happened. The wood did not rattle in place or tip over. An object from within did not tumble toward me—another planet falling into the orbit of its sun. The glass of water at its side didn’t quake.

But therewasa tremor withinme. A pulse in my fingertips. Even more prominent was the sensation of my mind expanding, clawing, searching.

“Pick them up, miss,” the official said. Pushing the box even closer. It clattered noisily across the desk.

And with the movement came a small cloud of dust. The unbrushed particles of the stones and gems within.

I saw each particle as they rose, and watched as they spun in the stagnant air, and so did the administer. He froze in place, pen leaking ink onto the page before him.

More dirt rose, but not from the box this time. It wormed out from the tile crevices, from the soles of shoes, from creases of skin. It swept in from the doors, curling over the steps and stealing inside. A squall rose, dust swirling in every direction. The children shrieked and covered their eyes. The officials stood, their chairs knocking, falling. Voices were swallowed in the storm.

And I felt like a giant. A god. All around me, the universe pulsed.

Something in my chest recoiled—the snap of elastic stretched too far, and abruptly, the surge died. Dirt rained to the floor. Silence blanketed us all.

In the palm of my hand, a small mound of dust collected, no larger than an anthill.