It happened on a Tuesday.
Tuesdays had become, in the compound's accumulated mythology, the day things happened. Luna had documented this. There was a subsection in the building story titled *The Tuesday Pattern* with seven entries, and she was adding an eighth.
Rowan was two months old and had opinions about everything.
The full-volume word had been joined by a secondary vocabulary — not words, not yet, but the specific range of sounds that meant different things and that we had learned to distinguish the way you learned to distinguish the river's quality in different weather. There was the hunger sound and the bored sound and the sound that meant something interesting was happening in the room and the sound that meant nothing was wrong and they simply wanted to register their presence
