The air in the sss basin no longer smells of damp earth and blooming jasmine. It smells of ash, ozone, and the sharp, metallic tang of rotting vegetation.
I stand in the center of the massive clearing, my heavily bandaged hands resting on my hips. The physical toll of the prune is evident in the deep, throbbing ache in my bruised ribs, but the emotional toll is far heavier.
Around me, the massive, pulsing golden vines that had threatened to crush the ancient canopy are dead. They lie in tangled, gray heaps, slowly dissolving into the mossy floor of the rainforest. The ancient Sitka spruces and mahogany trees, freed from the suffocating grip of the genesis energy, stand tall and silent, their bark scarred but intact.
At my feet, Asher is kneeling in the dirt.
He is twelve years old, but
