“I didn’t. She was in the wheat field when we found the children the first time.”

That takes me aback. Questions rise, but now’s not the time. I walk around the drawbridge and find more stones with tiny light threads through them, building a scene in my mind before touching each piece. Walls form. More towers with conical roofs and snapping flags of red.

The children cheer, and Heidi runs to the base of a wall and scoops up a handful of stiff gray dirt. Yellow flowers bloom out of it. She squeals and plants them.

Somehow, this makes sense to me. Amid all the confusion of this Nightmare world, I understand this. It’s creation. We’ve broken through Tenebra’s boundaries and walls and found raw unprogrammed ImagiSerum. We’re programming it and directing it from inside the dream . . . with our minds.

Except the power that allows us to do that is not a program. It’s Light. It’s Him. Just like that wheat field is Him.

My mind isn’t the one connecting the dots, my soul is.

The children create an entire garden, complete with three fruit trees and a grape vine that climbs the newly made walls. The grapes are pastel pink and purple. A little girl touches a leaf, and a ladybug forms in the spot her finger touched.

Some of the boys create a small moat, though it’s empty. They send a few turtles down its banks. Erik lowers the drawbridge, laughing the whole time. Stranna still stands dumbfounded.

“Come on, Stranna!” I call to her, running across the drawbridge into a courtyard in desperate need of grass.

She follows, but slowly. “I . . . I can’t.” She tucks her hands in the folds of her toga.

I stop celebrating and walk up to her. “If I can, so can you.”

“How is this even happening?”

“You serve the Creator, right?” She nods but seems anxious. “So create with Him.” It’s like I’ve finally dropped my own walls—let my pride crumble—and accepted the God that Mom and Nole talked so often about.

The knowledge of Him is trickling from my head into my heart and . . . I’m not angry anymore.

Stranna shakes her head. “The Emperor will see all of this when he comes back. He’s going to decimate us.”

“Stop being afraid, Stranna. Fear not, and all that.”

She stares at me. “How can you say that? You’re going to die in a few days. Remember?”

“That’s not in my control,” I tell her. “It never was. So while I’m still alive, I’m going to live.” I grin. “Just try it, okay?”

I take her hand and tug her arm gently toward the ground. I place her palm on the stones that are now cobbled and arranged in an attractive spiral. Nothing happens. She looks up at me.

I raise an eyebrow. “Hiding it under a bushel, are we?”

She huffs. “As if you should talk. Heathen.” She turns her focus back to the ground and her brow furrows. Concentrating. Her body is still tense. I lean over and brush hair out of her face, and she takes a deep breath. She closes her eyes briefly and utters a barely audible prayer.

A tiny trickle of water comes from her fingers. She gasps and jerks her hand away, leaving a dark outline of her fingers and palm. Then, tentatively, she presses both hands against the ground and water gushes forth again, streams and streams of it. The stones beneath her touch shudder, and something shoots up around us, creating a circle of stone like a pool that fills.

She exclaims and quickly stands, but we’re already in several inches of water. The water builds and grows and fills the stone circle. We clamber out as the stone stills itself into the shape of a small fountain, bubbling and spilling over fresh and clear.

“But how is this working?” she asks. “Fountains take underground infrastructure and drainage.”

“You’re not creating alone, Stranna. Someone else is filling in the gaps.”

She looks at me, startled. “Are you sure you’re not Adelphoi?”

I lift my arms. “No magical sword.” The words pain me, but I try to stay lighthearted. “Besides, do I smell like cinnamon rolls?”

I see unshed tears as she replies. “No.”

I yearn to be an Adelphoi. I know I’ve made the shift in my mind and heart, accepting God the way Nole and Mom did. I’m like the thief on the cross who waited until the last minute. Whatever level my faith is at, it’s not enough to give me a magical sword or a weird stench to Tenebran citizens. It’s not enough to give me that resurrection life they all seem to have.

I’m weak. I’m too new. When I die in a few days, I’ll really die. But I’m not afraid. I’m willing to accept the things I don’t understand.

From the other side of the drawbridge some of the boys shout. “The moat! There’s water in the moat! Turtle race!”

“No, let’s do alligators!”

Stranna makes a slight movement, but Erik beats her to it. “Uh, boys? Let’s stick with turtles for now.”

“Aw, man!”

After another half hour, our little fortress is built. It’s made of rich multicolored stone, dark brown wood for the drawbridge, and decorated with flowers as though the girls got hold of a magical bedazzling wand.

We work on the rooms. I help form bunk beds while Stranna strains to make blankets and pillows. The blankets are stained, a few frayed, and some pillows have open seams that spill feathers all over the ground.

“Why is it so hard for me?” she complains as she stuffs feathers back into the pillow by the handful.

I don’t have an answer. Erik waltzes in with a stack of perfect pillows and tosses one onto each bunk bed before he notices the spilled feathers around Stranna.

“What happened here—”

“Don’t,” she snaps.

He raises his eyebrows at me, and we both sidle out of the room. While we analyze the structure for defense and weaponry, the children dance and squeal in the courtyard, feeling safe and free with the drawbridge up. I make them another basketball. This time it has color like it should. But nothing is as bright as it should be. We’re still trapped beneath the gray Tenebran sky. It’s like playing and gardening at dusk—without the mosquitoes.

“What should we name our castle?” Erik hollers to the kids, setting up a game of four-square, but with doubles.

“Hogwarts!”

“Cair Paravel!”

“Hyrule!”

“Mordor!”

They shout out all the names that ignited passion in me for much of my life. The names of castles from favorite stories and places that made me want to be a Draftsman in the first place.

“What about you, Everett?” Erik asks. “You’re the oldest, you should choose.”

Everett sits on the edge of the fountain, swirling a finger in the water and playing with a scarlet beta fish. The kids stop their game and listen for his answer, revealing the respect and love they have for him, even though he’s only a year or two their senior.

He looks up. “Home,” he says simply. “Call it what you want, but its real name is Home.”