Darlene is staring up at something when Rob arrives. A flock of starlings bursts from a streetside tree, whirls through a complicated figure, and settles again on a near-identical tree nearby.

Darlene’s lips move silently, then she says “Darkness is coming… darkness and heat. Death in the night, and betrayal.”

“Ornithomancy?” asks Rob.

“What?” she snaps, turning.

“Er, divination by birds. Flight patterns or, um. Guts.”

“Ridiculous. Birds are stupid, how would they know the future?”

“But weren’t you just–”

“No,” she says, “there,” and gestures beyond the starlings: a web of bright graffiti, as complex and dense as Sanskrit.