“It was… after four when we came in here?” says Yael. “So by now it’s nearly–”

Silhouine is up, scrambling toward one of the corridors. “Five o’clock tastes like burning dust,” she pants.

“How do you even know which one is twelve?” says Yael, following. “Also, what?”

“The candle told me,” says Silhouine, and hurries into darkness.

Yael blinks down at the little stub and sees that its flame is, in fact, streaming steadily toward a different portal in some invisible breeze. She hurries after her friend, thinking, they always hurry. Can’t they take their time getting to the next disaster?